


Ceremonials

by AraceliL



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Budding Love, But also happy a lot!, Depression, Drama & Romance, Epic Friendship, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, F/M, Gen, Healing, ME 2 retelling (cause I know everyone wants another one), Romance, Slow Burn, Team as Family, angsty, bunch of badasses on a boat, headcanons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 17:43:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5214902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AraceliL/pseuds/AraceliL
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zelda Shepard is not fine. No, no, quite the goddamn opposite. She died -- died -- and everyone expects her to act like she can just pick up the Commander mantle again, no sweat? She tries -- oh, god, she does -- but even heroes fall, and she's not sure if she'll be able to climb out of the abyss -- at least not without the help of her friends. But with the Collectors (and worse) looming on the horizon, she sums up the last of her strength, these ceremonials that allow us to continue on, to prepare our hearts for the worst yet to come. She'll never be okay, really -- but no one else is either. Thane/Shepard-centric. Not a verbatim retelling -- the roots are the same, but I try to add some scenes and detail the game was unable to, so a generous amount of headcannon (but nothing bizarre or out of place).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dog Days Are Over

**Author's Note:**

> ME2 retelling because everyone wants to write their own Shepard's story and this is Zelda's. Thanks for reading!

When Shepard woke up, there were two things she was certain of: One) she was no longer in the inky death of the stars and two) she was also not on her ship.

Alarms blared in her ears, wobbling into her brain where they scattered her detached thoughts. Where was she? She moved her head to see her body dressed in a white hospital gown, bare, bony knees sticking out from underneath the coarse fabric. _I haven’t been this skinny since Akuze._ She tried to move her limbs, but they felt like loose joints on a wooden puppet, fingers and toes completely unresponsive. She was trying to get her bearings, head and eyes roaming wildly around the lab-type room, to keep the panic at bay when a thickly accented voice sounded over a loudspeaker.

“Shepard, I need you to get up! I know this is confusing, and I can explain it all later, but right now the facility is under attack and I need you to get up. There’s a pistol over in the locker -- mechs are headed your way!”

    _What the hell is going on?_ Her mind took a second to duly wonder, but survival instinct kicked in first and she threw her body off the examination table.

    _Fuck_. Her legs still weren’t responding, but a tingling feeling, as though her arms had been asleep for a long time, began to spread through her arms. She wiggled her fingers experimentally. Excellent, at least she could hold a gun, albeit clumsily, though fighting her way through shielded mechs in nothing but a hospital gown wasn’t the most appealing thing she could think of.

    She dragged her dead lower half over to the locker mentioned by the female’s voice, panting heavily, sweat beading on her forehead, stinging. _Fuck. Why am I paralyzed? My muscles feel like they’ve atrophied! What the hell is happening?_ The panic threatened to set in ( _nothing but stars, a sinister hiss in her ear_ ), but she had the strange understanding that time had passed -- a similar feeling to when you wake up after a long nap and intrinsically know that a few hours have passed -- except she knew it had been much longer than that.

    Metallic boots outside the door snapped her out of her fear. _Okay, focus. Pistol._

    She opened the locker, found the pistol -- unfortunately the only gun -- and a slight breeze along her back made her hesitate and grab the lab coat hanging inside. She was Commander Shepard. She wouldn’t have her dignity compromised, along with whatever else had been.

    The security mechs hacked through the lock just as she crawled, elbows burning, behind the locker, curling her legs into her as much as she could. Leaning out between bullets, snapping shots off into glowing red rings was weirdly unfamiliar, like stretching a muscle after a long-term injury. Her first few shots went way sideways, the mechs turning to look at them as though they were just as surprised. She grumbled as she adjusted her aim and sent their heads flying.

    “Shepard! Are you alright?”

    “I’m fine,” she grunted, her voice sounding like a stranger’s in her ears. “My legs won’t work.”

    “I can’t get to you. You’ll have to make your way out before they swarm you. Can you do it?”

    “Doesn’t sound like I have a choice, do I?” She dropped a heat sink and tore a few clips out of the mechs around her, stuffing them into the pockets of the lab coat. “Where do I go?”

    The voice gave her directions, and she followed them as best she could, slowly feeling her legs regaining feeling. She pushed herself to her knees, then her feet, hands gripping the jutting parts of the walls for balance. Her first few steps were wobbly and unsure, feeling like she was walking with cement blocks, but she made it through to an open area, where a man was crouched behind a glass railing, flinging bullets and biotics across a gap to damage the mechs on the other side.

    As the door opened, he looked over, and his eyes grew wide. “Shepard?” he asked, voice just as confused as she felt.

    A bullet _plinging_ off his shields caused him to turn away, rending the remaining mechs useless with by lifting them into the air. “Things must be worse than I thought if Miranda’s got you running around.”  
    She took the opportunity to pick off the floating robots, then made her way to where the man was still behind shelter, his arm glowing with biotics. “Miranda? Where am I? What’s going on? Who are--”

    The door across the way slid open again, another handful of mechs pouring out.

    “Tell you what,” the man said, panting slightly, “Help me clear this area and I’ll answer all your questions.”

    She nodded curtly, and they turned back toward the mechs. She tried to use her biotics, attempting to warp one of the more aggressive robots, but nothing happened as she outstretched her hand, no familiar surging along her veins. _That’s not good._ She tried to send a bullet into him instead, to save face, but the shot went into a completely different robot unlucky enough to be behind her target.

    The man was looking at her with something akin to pity, so she gritted her teeth, focused down the sights of the pistol, and _CLINK_ went the head, relieving some of her frustration with it. That same look was in the soldier’s voice as he said, “Just tell me when you want me to hit ‘em with the good stuff, Commander.”

    She just nodded again, lips pressed into a thin line, teeth biting into the soft, wet skin until she could taste blood.

    _Good. Blood means I’m alive...somehow._

    Finally the last one was dead, and the door didn’t open after a minute, so the man stood up, holstering his gun. He helped her up after her legs trembled like the traitors they were, and said, “I’m Jacob Taylor.” He shook her hand once he was sure she was stable.

    “Shepard,” she said automatically.

    “I know,” he said, chuckling humorlessly. “Ready to get the hell off this station? I’m sure Miranda is already at the shuttles.”

    “I need answers, first,” she said, looking at the logo on his uniform. Where had she seen that before?

    “Shoot.” His voice was casual, but his eyes were flickering around, examining her when he thought she wasn’t looking. His eyes had grown wide again.

    “What the hell happened to me?” The words tumbled through her lips, and he seemed taken aback by the question, and then the most uncomfortable look overtook his features.

    “You...I guess Miranda wouldn’t really have had time to tell you...Uh, you, uh, died.”

    She blinked. “Died.”

    “Yeah.” His brown eyes darted everywhere but her face. She looked down at her arms, skinnier than her legs, sandy-brown skin now crisscrossed with a lattice of pinky red scars. Her jaw felt tight, and she unclenched it with a deep breath.

    “I didn’t just make a spectacular recovery? The Alliance didn’t get me before I--I--”

    And just like that she was on the ground again, grey tile, too bright, too polished, staring up at her, more real than the hands writhing on top of it.

    The man, Jacob, was kneeling next to her, hand on her shoulder, more for physical than emotional support. “I’m sorry, Commander. I know this isn’t easy to hear. But right now, we have to get the hell off this station before these mechs cause anymore damage. You don’t even have a hardsuit, and I hate the risk, especially not after how much work the doctors put into Project Lazarus.”

    She grappled for something that would push all the terrifying thoughts from her head. Something real, something present. She let survival instinct hit her like the drug it was, numbing out every other fear and worry in a delicious prioritizing purge.

    _Project Lazarus._ She didn’t need to ask; her father had read her a verse every night before she fell asleep, and now, the word chilled her to the bone.

    _Mechs. Station._ “Why are the mechs attacking?”

    Taylor’s dark hand tightened into a fist. “I don’t know. Was about to catch some shut-eye when the alarms went off, and security was shooting at _us_. It’s an inside job, though; has to be. You need high security clearance to hack all of them.”

    “Hello? Hello? Anyone still alive out there?” a man’s voice sounded over the comm. Shepard barely looked up as Taylor made contact, only raising her eyes when she heard “Shepard’s alive? How the hell?” Taylor set their course, then offered a silent hand to her on the floor.

    She stared up at him before accepting his help. Before he pulled away, she gripped his hand tightly, pulling him toward her in a display she was sure would have been as intimidating as she meant it to be if she didn’t have the strength of a fourteen year old. “I have one more question before we move on, and you better fucking have the answer.”

    Despite her malnourished strength, some color drained from his face. “What else do you need to know, ma’am?”

    “Who the hell do you work for?” The logo was taunting her, spinning in her head, a half remembered image from what felt like -- _what was_ \-- a lifetime ago.

    His eyes betrayed him once again. “I -- I don’t think I can say, ma’am.”

    She let her eyes do the talking. He seemed so unnerved, she almost barked out a laugh at the absurdity of the situation. “Do you really think I won’t find out one way or another?”

    He grimaced, yanking his hand out of her iron grip. “...Cerberus. We’re Cerberus.”

    It hit her then, the logo, the experiments, the missions.

    “You’re telling me... _Cerberus_ rebuilt me?”

    “You’ll get your answers, Commander. That I can promise you. But right now we need to move.” He started forward, no doubt wanting to get this behind him as soon as possible. Seeing no other option, she followed him, head swimming.

    They soon met another operative, one that hardly endeared himself to Shepard, though mentions of Miranda kept floating around, and she gathered that this lady had been the head doctor of her...project, and the voice that had woken her up. They headed toward the shuttle bay, and as they opened the door, a beautiful woman stood before them, but before Shepard could piece together that this was Miranda, Jacob was doing it for her when he screamed “Miranda!” as she shot the other operative in the chest.

    Shepard only watched dully as the balding man crumpled to the floor. These weren’t her politics, and frankly, she couldn’t care less.

    The woman in front of her was gorgeous, blue eyes narrowed as she argued with Taylor, long brunette hair as perfect as a Barbie’s, not a hint of red on her pristine white catsuit. In contrast, Shepard could feel cuts all over, blood staining the white lab coat she still wore.

    “Where were you during the fighting?” she cut in suspiciously, pistol gripped tightly in her hand.

    The woman turned to look at her now, and her perfect eyes had the scrutinizing gaze of a doctor, one that she intrinsically distrusted. _Well, that and the logo on her outfit._ “Besides saving your life, you mean? Wilson here sent an army of mechs to prevent me from getting to you.”

    Shepard raised an eyebrow to her, not unused to a little lip, but squashed the urge to call her out on it, reminding herself that she wasn’t a Cerberus commander. Besides, she needed answers, and fighting wasn’t the way to do it.

    “Fair enough. What next?”

    “We leave.” She jerked a thumb toward the shuttle behind her. “My boss wants to speak with you.”

    “You mean the Illusive Man.”

    A wry look settled on Miranda’s face. “Ah, Jacob. Should’ve known your conscious would get the better of you.”

    The tallest person in the room looked like a puppy who was being scolded. “She would’ve found out anyway.”

    Miranda shrugged, apparently unaffected. “Yes. Let’s go.”

    “First,” Shepard said, as the group started forward, “Can I get some real clothes?”

 

_Cerberus. Lazarus. Reapers. Death._

_Colonists abductions, Alliance ignorance, the Illusive Man, Cerberus. Terrorists. My crew, dissolved. My life, dissolved. Two years dead._

_Two years._

_Reapers Project Lazarus Cerberus_

_Two years_

_Two years dead._

 

The ride to Freedom’s Progress was quiet. Shepard was absorbed in her thoughts, doing an impressive job of managing her emotions. The shuttle creaked around them, metal on metal, the wind howling around them the only sound besides the gentle hum of the thrusters and their own breathing. Miranda hadn’t been particularly satisfied at her “field test”, but apparently felt like she was well enough to go back into combat, though all Shepard wanted to do was sleep.

She worked on autopilot the whole mission, letting adrenaline give her the high she needed, pleased to see that the operatives listened to her commands, at least. And she had gotten her very own set of Cerberus fatigues, a complimentary gift from her lovely stay at the facility where her “meat and tubes” had been rebuilt. _Thank you, Jacob, for that tactful description._

Her hard suit had been refitted to her, though she was working with the fatigues underneath instead of an undersuit, arms shivering behind the cold metal. Miranda had discreetly provided her with hospital-grade underwear, so coarse she could feel her thighs chafing even in the relatively comfortable fatigues, and while it wasn’t a big deal, if she was going to gripe about anything, she preferred it to be about something small instead of working herself up over her...over Project Lazarus.

She enjoyed the new guns she had been given though, and experienced no small amount of glee at exploding an Atlas mech with her new rocket launcher. That, at least, was unchanged, it seemed. Her shotgun was beautiful, and more than once she took a second from her target to admire the lines of the barrel. _Not like I couldn’t beat these mechs blindfolded, anyway._

The poor aim caused by her shaky arms had worked itself out as they went along, but came back with relative force as soon as they charged into a room, only to be confronted by three angry quarians and one whose voice sounded all too familiar, trying to convince the front man to lower his gun.

_It can’t be…_

“...Shepard?” Tali said, glowing eyes perfect circles behind her purple mask. “It can’t be.” She stared at her former commander, eyes flickering wildly, head shaking back and forth. “You _died_ ,” she blurted, and the bluntness was so familiar Shepard would’ve have collapsed in her friend’s arms if there hadn’t been three very confused and very twitchy quarians behind her.

“Tali,” she breathed, wanting to exclaim at finding her, wanting to hug her and cry, to learn everything, but the set of her shoulders was tense, and her team was staring at her. “Cerberus...rebuilt me,” was what she said instead, letting her reluctance show through her words. She could practically feel Miranda scowling behind her. “In return, they asked me to investigate these attacks.”

“ _Rebuilt_ you?” Tali sounded as awed as Shepard had, and it sent all her frustration flooding back. She was just as confused, mouth opening and closing like a fish, but luckily one of Tali’s team members cut in,

“We’re sorry if we don’t take you at your word, _Cerberus._ ” It was one of the male quarians behind her, gesturing aggressively with his gun.

“We’re well within our rights to investigate a human colony. I’m more interested in what a bunch of quarians are doing here,” Miranda said, tone impeccably cool.

Tali, ever the peacekeeper, shook off her daze, eyes still on Shepard. “We’re looking for one of our own. Name’s Veetor. He went on Pilgrimage here to help -- always afraid of large crowds, nervous -- and we lost contact when the colony went dead. He hid when he saw us landing in the far warehouse.”

“Let’s team up then,” Shepard said instantly, moving to head out, but the male quarian stopped her.

Tali reprimanded him instantly, sparking a glow of pride in Shepard’s chest, and the teams moved out, but Tali stayed behind to give Shepard one long, crushing hug.

“I’m so happy to see you,” she whispered, and tears pricked Shepard’s eyes. She wanted to stay here, forever, she wanted Tali’s and Garrus’s and Liara’s and Wrex’s and Kaidan’s arms all around her, telling her it was going to be okay, it was all alright, she would weather this storm.

But, they weren’t here, ( _two fucking years_ ) and they had a mission. _Focus, Zelda._

One betrayal and another dead Atlas mech later, they found the poor, fever-ridden quarian, whose voice reminded her so much of Tali she drew in a deep breath. She was warming herself with thoughts of recruiting the engineer until Veetor pulled up an image of a huge, bug-eyed creature, four eyes glowing with a sinister gold gaze, and all thoughts of familiarity were blown apart. She watched in growing horror as the swarms of bugs ( _seeker swarms, Veetor called them_ ) buzzed around, the quarian narrating the events in a voice so fear-stricken she knew it had nothing to do with his exosuit exposure.

She was silent as Miranda suggested ‘grabbing the quarian’ as though he were a tool, and not a traumatized living being, but her teeth grinded against each other as she thought of how to respond without snapping. Luckily, she didn’t have to as her favorite quarian arrived, looking as indignant as Shepard felt.

“What? Veetor is traumatized! He needs treatment, not an interrogation!” Tali’s voice sounded powerful, and something inside Shepard ached with a bittersweet tinge at seeing her shy, quiet teammate now a confident leader.

“We’ll never get the intel we need if we hand him over to you,” Miranda was saying, and Shepard was about to offer a solution when Tali did it for her.

“You’re welcome to take his omni-tool data, but please, just let me take him.” She looked toward Shepard, who nodded in return.

“Of course.” She turned to Miranda, voice cooling. “Veetor needs medical care; he goes with Tali, and we’ll get the data."

“Understood, Commander,” the operative said right away, in that perfectly polite and respectful way that meant she really did not agree with said commander’s way of doing things. Which was perfectly alright with Shepard.

Tali picked up on the dynamic, apparently. “Thanks. Glad to see you’re still the one giving orders.”

She just smiled in response, taking a step closer to her friend. “Come with us, Tali. I could really use you back on the team.” _I could really use the familiarity._

The only familiarity she received was Tali’s glowing eyes turning down in her apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Shepard. You know I would if I could. But I’ve got my own mission now, my own responsibilities. So much has changed…” She trailed off, unsure what to say, then grasped Shepard’s hands in hers. “Be safe out there. If I find anything to help you, I’ll let you know.”

And with that, she was gone, three-fingered hands slipping from five-fingered ones and the only thing left of Shepard’s old life was the lump she swallowed in her throat.

 

Another debriefing with the Illusive Man was illuminating, albeit taxing; the tycoon had made his goals very clear, as though that would cause Shepard to trust him. She knew his transparency was nothing more than a farce, but she had to give it to him, he knew how to play her. He hit her in all the right places, just the right amount of _Reapers_ and _humanity’s best interests_ and _Alliance ignorance_ to create the perfect morality cocktail that quickly got her drunk on ideals. Oh, they both knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but they also both knew she needed something to do lest she go insane from the implications of Project Lazarus. He knew she needed something to feel herself again, and throwing herself headlong into an impossible cause always seemed to do the trick. _How quaint, he knows me._

Though she might already hate the Illusive Man for all his cigarettes and brandies were worth, there was one thing that he did know wonderfully, perfectly well:

“Joker?!”

 

* * *

 

  _And I never wanted anything from you_

_Except everything you had and what was left after that too..._

_Happiness hit her like a bullet in the back_

_Struck from a great height by some man who should have known better than that._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I have a lot in store and I'm very excited to be writing! As you can see, I take a few liberties with how events happened, as well as not going play-by-play of how a mission goes down, because A lot of writers have done that already and it can get boring pretty quick. The more important missions will be more detailed, as well as any changes I've made. Please leave comments or kudos if you enjoyed! Thanks again!  
> Also, side note: The only reason I don't credit the lyrics at the ends of the chapters is because all chapters are named after a Florence + The Machine song, and every set of lyrics will be from the song the chapter is titled after.


	2. I'm Not Calling You A Liar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note for this chapter: I sort of imply that Zaeed's mission was not done on Omega, because I've never actually had his DLC (but come on this wouldn't be a ME2 story without all the extras), so I had already written it in by the time I checked the mission and saw that his recruitment mission was also on Omega. So, for the sake of continuity, let's just say that in my little headcannon it was...somewhere else. Doesn't really matter where. Just somewhere else. Sorry 'bout that!

    Her ship was beautiful, she had to admit, despite having Cerberus’s ugly yellow staining it in place of royal Alliance blue. EDI had been a surprise, but she was courteous, and helpful, so Shepard welcomed her -- or, it -- with open arms (also because Joker’s reaction was hilarious). While she had initially rejected interacting with her crew, instead retreating to her new cabin as much as possible (and god it was huge), she considered herself to be making progress recently, even going as far as to talk to Yeoman Chambers when she thought Kelly was going to explode if she didn’t. The other crewmen didn’t try to talk to her, which she appreciated, but the worm of guilt that was wiggling in her stomach finally forced her to stop pouting and introduce herself. She let the crewman know that if they were her crew, she didn’t care if they were Cerberus (but she made sure they also knew that she was not a part of the organization). Camaraderie, she knew, was almost (if not more) important than weapons and training when it came to building an army, so she strived to be as personable and approachable as possible, which she couldn’t do if she was huddled in her bed, staring at her pretty new fishtank.

    Her first night had been rough, a few hours of sleep grasped here and there in between gazing blankly at the soft blue light radiating in the otherwise dark room. A soft, fluffy blanket around her shoulders ( _a down comforter? Cerberus really spared no expense_ ), shaggy, uncut bangs obscuring her vision, she let a few tears slip, trying to sort out her thoughts as much as she could. She was trying to focus on her mission ( _Stop the Collectors by any means necessary_ ), trying to force the paralyzing images of the stars, the black out of her mind, but it was hard in the middle of the night, with nothing but the quiet hum of the ship to comfort her. She wanted arms around her, a warm body to lean against, someone to stroke her hair and tell her she was going to be okay, but all she had was the empty fishtank and her blanket.

    The gentle blue reminded her of Garrus’s armor, of the bright stripes along his grey plates that he explained meant which tribe he belonged to, more a custom now than a real marker. The lighter parts reminded her of Liara’s skin, of the asari’s soft, eager voice as they discussed Protheans, Matriarchs, and anything else she wanted to know. She always had questions for Shepard, earnest in understanding, voice stumbling as she tried to avoid asking anything offensive, earning more than a few laughs from the commander. Shepard knew that technically, Liara was older than she would ever live to be, but mentally she was her elder, and the excitement of youth shone through her like a light. Garrus had been similarly inexperienced, looking to her more like a superhero than a person, and while she had tried to gently correct his idealism, growing up the oldest child had made her pause. His interpretation of Spectres would surely, eventually, be made realistic, so she avoided the topic, as she enjoyed socializing with him.

    An ache still burned in her chest when she thought of her crew, a white-hot spark jumping when she thought of Tali. Her mind argued that Tali was a capable, responsible leader now, and she shouldn’t be anything but happy for her, but her heart was irrational and screamed out something suspiciously close to  _betrayal_   with every pump.

    The Illusive Man hadn’t given her any contact with her old crew, saying that none were available, and uncertain anxiety had kept her from trying to contact those she knew were still around ( _if their extranet addresses were even the same anymore_ ). Garrus, disappeared ( _God I hope he’s okay_ ); Liara, busy ( _an information broker? Like the Shadow Broker?_ ); Tali, also busy for the Fleet; Wrex, a leader ( _he'll do well_ ); and Kaidan, well, he was a commander now.

    If she was honest with herself, it was Commander Alenko she was most afraid of contacting, despite being sure she could sweet-talk Anderson into giving him his extranet address, at the least. What would she say to him? How do you _die_ on someone who thinks he’s in love with you, then return as if nothing happened, as if her very (re)existence wasn’t a blasphemous glob of spit on the face of God? How do you explain that to someone who idolized you?

    She didn’t much like to think what had happened between her and Kaidan. There hadn’t been much discussion, not with Ilos and kicking Sovereign back to dark space and the celebratory party with lots and lots of alcohol.

    She smiled slightly, pulling the blankets tighter around her shoulders, fingers idly stroking her arm.

Wrex had introduced the human crew to ryncol and Joker had gotten so drunk they had to call in his secondary pilot to handle the Normandy, Garrus laughing so hard in his flanging voice, Tali curled up under his arm as she hiccuped. Kaidan had tried to match shots with Liara, who folded after just two, dissolving into giggles every time she tried to get close to him. He had held her up good-naturedly, ignoring her “embracing eternity” remarks and wandering hands, locking eyes with Shepard and blushing furiously. She had shaken her head, chuckling, and pretended not to notice the smoulder burning in Kaidan’s brown gaze. If she looked any longer, she knew, she would fall for it, all alcohol and soft black hair, and repeat her mistake.

He had been a fling, though she had a terrible suspicion that there had been some miscommunication there. She knew it had been stress relief for her, scratching an itch that arose very rarely since becoming a marine, an itch that came from the very real possibility of certain death facing her. Still, she was fond of Kaidan, looking to him like a pupil, proud of the talents and courage he displayed when defeating Saren. And as such, she intensely regretted using him like she had. She had meant to talk to him, meant to explain what they were, but always put it off for fear of hurting him. No, there was a geth pocket to destroy tonight; no, he seemed so happy and was working well with the crew; no, I can’t…

Now, it seemed terribly inappropriate to try to bring that up. _Hey, I know you went to my funeral and all_ (she shivered) _but I was just using you so that’s cool, nice to see you again!_

She sighed, finally turning away from the Garrus-and-Liara-blue light to burrow beneath the comforter. _It’s been two years. I’m sure he’s moved on._ Her body relaxed slowly, still feeling weird around her, but the bed was warm and her muscles ached from the mission today, feeling satisfied with having a new recruit on the team. The thief hadn’t been easy to track down, but she was charismatic, and hadn’t questioned the commander’s authority, so she was already Shepard’s favorite person on the ship.

Sleep claimed her quickly, at least, the best blessing she could ask for in spite of her racing mind.

 

* * *

 

Omega was their next stop, much to Massani’s complaining; according to him (and Taylor, if the grumbling she heard had indeed come from the operative), the station was an “absolute pisshole” that “doesn’t deserve visitors.” Which, of course, only made Zelda more excited to get there.

For one, Lawson would not stop insisting that acquiring the professor was the logical move (she had rolled her eyes once Shepard listened to her, nodded, then proceeded to set a course to Massani’s location, immediately followed by Goto’s), and Shepard agreed with her; for two, she was intensely curious about anyone who was going around calling themselves Archangel, especially one who was a vigilante. So they arrived, Joker mumbling some choice words under his breath about the state of the docking station, only shutting up with a sheepish smile toward Shepard when she smacked him over the head with her glove.

He (and everyone else) was right, though; Omega _was_ a pisshole. As Shepard stepped into the rubbish-filled, stinking hub, she counted at least seven gunshots from three different directions, Taylor twitching at each one. Her own fingers itched to caress the beautiful new pistol at her hip, and she pacified it by running them through long black hair, tangled from sleep, instead. _I’m surprised no one bothered to give me a haircut in the last two years, considering Lawson’s anal attention to detail._

EDI sounded in her ear, directing her towards an Aria T’Loak who called herself Omega’s ruler, or as much as the lawless station could pretend to have. Shepard started there, heading toward the dominating feature of Omega, Afterlife, a foreboding feeling that she couldn’t place settling in her gut.

The club was akin to every other club she had ever been in: dark, loud, heavy and clouded. It felt like one could easily slip into the shadows, but she knew it was a trap -- there wasn’t a corner here that wasn’t there by design to lure unsuspecting citizens into it, a honeypot with sensually dancing asari and sensually dancing booze. Aria had chosen her lair well.

They found the asari on the highest platform with the best view, a queen ruling over benevolent, submissive subjects, praising her gifts of wine, women, and bedroom hymns.

She was beautiful, like most asari, and domineering, like most kingpins. The low pink and blue lights glittered on silver paint along her face as she sat down on the couch across from Shepard, nodding to her to do the same.

She did, surprised at being recognized.

“Shepard,” laughed the asari when she voiced her concern. “You think I wouldn’t know? Your face was plastered across every terminal for almost a year after your death. I’d be an idiot to not recognize you.” She leaned close then, smelling like smoke and perfume. “And I’m not an idiot.”

    She relaxed back into the couch, leather shifting easily over long legs. She looked over at Shepard then, and she took it as her cue to speak.

    “I was hoping you could give me some information,” she said, doing her best to sound as indifferent as Aria did.

    T’Loak looked away. “Information is power. What do you want to know?”

    Shepard launched into her questions, glad that the asari was working with her, at least, despite looking as aloof and detached as she did. Like she had suspected, it was all for show, but the effect was just as striking as she wanted it to be.

    When she had all the information she needed, she stood up, feeling awkward and short next to the long, lean asari. “Thanks. Maybe I’ll be back.”

    “Maybe I’ll be here,” said Aria coolly, voice floating over the pulsing bass into her ears. She shook it away, heading to the safety of Jacob’s stoicism and Zaeed’s grumbling.

    “Looks like Archangel is in a bad way. We need to get to him before the mercs do,” she told her team, already heading toward the recruiting room that Aria had pointed her towards. “One less to worry about.”

  

 

    _Garrus?!_ “Garrus!” His helmet was off, and he had new armor, and he looked like he was about to pass out on the crate he was sitting on, but the blue lines on his face were there and the piercing blue eyes were there and the deep rumbling of his voice greeted her with surge in her stomach.

    “Shepard?” She knew his subvocals were portraying something she couldn’t understand, and that old yearning to understand flooded back. His gaze was narrowed at her, three-fingered hand trembling tightly on his rifle.

    _He’s seeing a ghost._ “Garrus,” she said again, dropping her arms awkwardly from where she’d flung them out in greeting. She knew what she needed to say, _Yes, it’s me, sorry ‘bout dying, I missed you dearly, let’s get you to safety, I’m so happy you’re here,_ but the only words that would form were “I -- Garrus -- It’s --” before a shot rang out, narrowly missing the turian’s head.

    He still looked wary as he turned from her and sniped the offender in one smooth movement. Up, breath, squeeze, between the eyes went the bullet. He turned back to her, staring at her up and down, before taking a deep breath, saying the words she couldn’t. “Let’s talk about it once we’re out of here.”

    The lump in Shepard’s throat seemed to dissolve, the merc reminding her of the very real danger Garrus was in, and she was not losing him, not after she had just found him again. _No more stupid mistakes. Focus. Lead._

    “Right. Time to spill a little merc blood.” She lined up a shot next to him, taking out a mech in the cleanest headshot she’d managed since waking up. A smile came over her face, feral, wild, and more happy than she’d been in this lifetime.

    His turian grin was lopsided, and small, but it was there, in his voice as he replied, “Glad to see you haven’t changed.”

    She ordered Jacob and Zaeed to suppressing positions, doing her best to focus on the mechs streaming in her crosshairs, but she could practically feel Garrus’s anxiety rolling off him in waves. His shots were all perfect, collected, but the sight of her had shaken him, and her in return.

    For a while there was nothing but the glorious music of bloodfury, heart thumping in ears, the quiet before the shot, the blunt thud of a bullet finding its mark, the clatter of heat sinks and the crack of the rifle sliding home. It almost felt like old times, hearing Garrus’s breath in her ear, his sniper recoiling next to her, shots covering her as she took cover and slammed a new heat sink home, covering him as he did the same. She could have fooled herself, for just a second, that she could tell Tali to whip out Chatika or Liara to lift an enemy. But Garrus’s breathing was becoming heavier and heavier, and the perfect headshots became two or three to the neck and forehead.

    The Eclipse were the first to fall, yellow armor an easy target in the browns of the bridge. A familiar salarian finally appeared, and even from this distance Shepard could see the frustration twitching his big eyelids. “Heavy mech incoming,” warned Jacob over the comm, and before Garrus could sigh in exasperation next to her, she tapped him on the shoulder and couldn’t help the grin as she explained her sabotage of the YMIR mech.

    “The look on his face!” A ragged Garrus cried next to her once the Eclipse leader was dead. He was doubled over in laughter, and Shepard laughed uneasily next to him, observing him with increasing worry. It was remarkable that signs of exhaustion were almost universal, and Garrus looked like he hadn’t slept in days. The tawny, soft skin around his neck not hidden by plates or armor was pale, nearly the color of her own skin; his eyes blinked frequently, sometimes staying shut a little longer than normal; and the tremble that had started when he saw her had traveled into his arms, and even his mandibles twitched. _God, he is out of it. I wonder how long he’s been up here? I need to get him out._

    So, of course, at that revelation, a new setback revealed itself.

She had turned to him to, mouth opened to speak when an explosion bought their attention, rattling the base.

“Shit,” Garrus said, pulling his sniper off its perch and rifling around in the bag next to him on the floor. “Well, they had to use their brains eventually.”

    “What’s happening?” Shepard asked, watching warily as he fished a stim from the pack, shimmying his glove off with the other hand.

    “They’re breaching the lower level,” he said, swiftly turning up his wrist, thin blue skin stretched taut, and pushed the needle into the vein pulsing there in one practiced motion. “We need someone to secure the shutters before they make it.”

    She had barely swung around to Taylor and Massani before they nodded in unison, heading down the stairs, Garrus’s direction in their comms.

    When they were gone, and Garrus seemed satisfied that they could handle their mission, he turned around and slunk down the wall, bright blue eyes locked on Shepard. The stim was already working its magic, it seemed: his arms had stopped shaking, and only the faintest tremor remained in his hands.

    He looked so defeated, sitting there, rifle between his legs, so when he broke his gaze from Shepard she joined him, crossing her legs underneath her as she sunk down next to him.

    The important words wouldn’t come, so instead she gently lay the rifle down and grasped his quivering hands in hers. “You’re shaking,” was all she could say, voice thick with emotions: relief, wonder, worry, fear.

    His piercing eyes were back on her. “And you’re alive.”

    She nodded, black hair falling in her vision as she stared at the hands clutching hers. “Yeah. Maybe. Who knows?”

    “What does that mean?”

    “Sorry, I’m just being stupid. Yeah, I’m alive. They tell me it’s been two years.”

    “It has been.”

    “It doesn’t seem real. I feel like I woke up from a coma.”

    The shock in his voice was enough to peel off the scab covering this barely healed wound. “You didn’t? I mean, I thought -- maybe you’d just been --”

    A dark chuckle came from her throat, cutting him off. “Not according to Cerberus.”

    “I thought I recognized the uniform.” He made a clicking noise in his mouth, a thoughtful noise. “And your armor. I didn’t believe it, though. Thought maybe someone had stolen it, at first. Then I realized there are other N7s. But I knew it couldn’t be anyone else.”

    That lump that had started with Tali grew bigger, and harder to swallow.

    “Why?” The air was tense, but not because of any awkward implications. Rather, the mood felt pregnant, weighted, as though at any moment it could burst and all the swirling emotions they were feeling would come flooding down on them, filling their lungs, choking them.

    Garrus’s pause was equally weighty. Then, his voice, so low she could barely hear it rumbled through her, warming her: “I recognized you. Even after these years. The way you press forward in a firefight. The motions of your hands when you give directions -- always pointing even though we know where to go -- especially the way you press your thumb and first finger together before you crack your knuckles. Usually before a shot.”

    She was stunned, hands still gripping Garrus’s so tightly she was worried she’d break them, even through the armor that was clinking together.

    “I...didn’t realize you noticed,” was all she could think to say. Garrus seemed almost _shy_ next to her, leading her to finally look at him, a smile she couldn’t contain on her face. _Goddammit I’m so glad he’s here._

    He watched her reaction nervously, smiling back, then before those emotions broke as they gazed at each other, both overjoyed to be with the other again, he gave her a lifeline in his humor. “Well, you know. Months spent behind you while you wreck everything in sight with a shotgun can tend to get a little boring.”

    She bumped his shoulder playfully, hand pulling on his arm when he nearly fell over from the force of it. They sat like that for a while, occasionally hearing grunts or yells over the comm, but the noise was good. Noise meant they were doing good. Everything was quiet on their end, and while both knew it wouldn’t last, it was nice to pretend. Pretend that Shepard and Vakarian were weaving daisy chains instead of waiting for a huge gang to regroup and send another wave of poor impressionable kids whose heads they’d have to blow off.

    “I’m just glad you’re back.” Garrus’s quiet voice floated over to her, subvocals wobbling. “I don’t care how they did it.”

    The lump swelled. “I’m glad you’re okay. I was told you had disappeared. Nobody told me you were on Omega.”

    “And nobody told me you were with Cerberus.” Coming from anyone else, it would have sounded accusational, but his voice was still soft. _What I would give to understand what his subharmonics meant!_

    “Sounds like we’ve got a lot to talk about once we get out of here,” she said, finally finding the courage to look up and meet his eyes, giving him a smile, and with it, some hope.

    A turian grin gifted her some hope in return. “It’s a date.”

    The basement door opening below made them both spring up, their momentary peace shattered. Zaeed gave her the all-clear as they moved toward the stairs, Shepard heading to meet them when a horrible screech filled the air.

    “Shit!” Garrus yelled from behind her. “Blood Pack!”

    Several vorcha flooded into sight, Garm himself following close behind. “Come on out, Archangel!” bellowed the krogan, not looking the least offput as Garrus retaliated with a quick headshot to the vorcha closest to him.

    Shepard had already sprung into action, ordering her team to position as she fumbled for a new heat sink in her ammo pack. “Suppress!” she cried over the shrill screams of the dying vorcha and the howls of the varren. _Varren? Really? Bullshit,_ she grumbled in her head. “Focus on the fodder. Garrus and I have dibs on the heavy!”

    A flanged laugh echoed next to her as it filtered in through her ear and the comm. “Let’s dance, Garm!”

    Garrus had been right; the krogan had to be a genetically altered. _No way he can regen that fast naturally!_ Shepard was almost certain she was going to have to resort her rocket launcher, despite her limited supply of heavy ammo, when Garrus proved his worthiness tenfold with a final shot through one of the krogan’s eyes.

    “This day just keeps getting better and better!” he whooped as the Blood Pack leader slumped over, lifeless. Shepard spent a heat sink and spat out a glob of blood from where a vorcha had slammed into her from Jacob’s throw, (she was a little pissed at him for that) then headed up the stairs.

“We’ve just got the Blue Suns left,” Garrus said to Shepard as she approached him. “Think we should fight it out?”

They regrouped on the upper level, Jacob wincing slightly from where a varren had gotten a little too close before Shepard had sent a warp its way. The marks didn’t look too deep, but it was hard to tell from the amount of blood pooling in the little wells. She was helping apply some medigel to the bite, getting ready to ask Garrus about taking their chances when the decision was made for them.

    “Archangel!” boomed a voice over a loudspeaker, bullets raining down on them from a dull blue gunship as it swung into view. “You think you can screw with the Blue Suns?”

    They were behind cover in seconds, taking every shot they could as the ship unloaded mercs onto the first floor with them.

    “Damn it! Thought I took that thing out already!” Garrus cursed from behind Zaeed.

    “They fixed it, but not completely,” Shepard confirmed, a frown settling onto her face. “I made sure of that.”

    Then the ship flaunted its guns and Shepard was intensely grateful she hadn’t wasted her heavy weapons ammo on Garm.

    Finally, when she was sure the last of the troopers were down, she turned her attention to the ship, which until then had been Garrus’s priority by unspoken rule. He was flaking, she realized, and she began to make her way over to him when she saw him stumble, and then time slowed down.

    A rocket, rushing through the air, whine burning her ears. Garrus twisting, grey and blue and black, reflexes honed by firefights but filed down by exhaustion. Contact. Orange sparks, yellow licking grey plates. Blue blood glittering like sapphires, so bright, so much, _oh god no no Garrus no fuck NO--_

    “Garrus!” She felt the scream rip from her throat, forcing herself to stay put and not scramble to his side. _I can’t help him if I’m dead._

    “Take down that ship!” she yelled to her team, as if they needed confirmation, but the urgency kicked in and the ship was falling within a minute. The second it was out of sight she was at Garrus’s side, knees slipping in horrifying amounts of blood as she pressed her hands to his face in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding. _I can’t even see where it’s coming from there’s so much, oh god --_

    “Normandy! I need an immediate evac!” Jacob was calling because she couldn’t, thank god for Jacob. She vaguely heard him give coordinates as applied all the medigel she had left to Garrus, Zaeed doing the same.

    Then -- a splutter, a cough, and Garrus’s eyes flew open, wild, roaming, unseeing.

    “Garrus!” Shepard cried. “Stay with me, Garrus! Don’t you fucking dare die on me. Come on, please.” She was aware she was begging, aware she was babbling, fingers drenched in blood the color of his old armor.

    A gruesome rasping came from his throat, a terrifyingly thick gurgling noise that chilled her to the core. _Come on, Garrus_. She babbled on, still applying medigel, hands shaking too hard to maintain contact with him, and then Jacob had her by the shoulders and was pulling her back, telling her something important, she was sure -- but her hands were so blue and Garrus was so limp -- something about the Normandy -- then a shuttle where all she could do was pray in the dark, whole body shaking furiously -- then Chakwas and Miranda were swaddled in clinical white like surgical angels and she was pushed out of the medbay, stunned.

Kelly was there, the first real thing to focus on, a look of intense pity on her face that Shepard hated instantly. _Well, she did just see me freak the fuck out. Come on, Zelda. Game face._

No longer paralyzed by fear, she composed herself, trying to ignore the blood dripping off her armor and her racing heart. Willing herself into a state of calm was difficult, but not new, and after a few minutes of deep breathing her mind felt like it was back to the most rational state it could be in, regarding the circumstances. _Chakwas and Miranda can take of him,_ she assured herself. She was pretty sure Miranda wasn’t a turian type of doctor, but every medical hand helped, and for the first time she was grateful Lawson was on the ship.

_He’s going to be okay._

    She made her way back to her cabin, head swimming, but the existential terror had been pushed back, which she chalked up to a win as she stripped to get into the shower. While she mechanically pulled her undersuit off, she made a list in her head, already thinking of the next mission. It had always made her feel better to have a plan, to feel at least somewhat in control where she could, and while Garrus’s life was a huge variable, she had had her freak out, and now was the time for action. _One freak out per disaster, okay?_

    She’d have to take her armor to the armory to clean it, and check out the gun she had picked up on Garrus’s base. Anderson had sent her another email, and Gardner had requested some better food stores. They were to remain on Omega until the Professor had been acquired, and then they were getting as far away as possible, which proved to be recruiting a krogan named Okeer. A warlord would be invaluable, and she was excited to have a krogan on her team again ( _hopefully_ ).

    The shower felt like a baptism, and she spent the next forty-five minutes under the delightfully warm water, mind occupying itself with her to-do list and occasional platitudes. Still, her ears strained for any hint of EDI telling her Chakwas was finished, or wanted to see her. With a sigh, she turned off the spray, toweled dry and dressed with military quickness.

    She spent the next few hours with various housekeeping chores, until finally, _finally_ , EDI chimed in over the intercom. “Dr. Chakwas wishes to see you outside the medbay, Commander.”

    She practically ran there, tapping her nails impatiently against the elevator wall and its cursed slowness.

    The good doctor was outside in the crew deck, leaning tiredly against the window of the medbay, the shutters closed for privacy. Indigo stained her otherwise pristine white coat, harsh and ugly under the fluorescent lights. She looked up as Shepard approached her, beckoning her over with a slight nod of her head, short grey hair all over the place.

“He’s going to be okay,” Chakwas smiled, watching as the tension visibly drained from Shepard, shoulders relaxing, fists uncurling, a smile of relief answering her own. “We corrected most of it with cybernetics. Neither of us like Cerberus, Commander, but we’re lucky Lawson was here. Her knowledge of cybernetic implants is far more extensive than my own, and helped save him.”

Shepard made a mental note to thank Miranda later. “Can I see him yet? Is he awake?”

“You can see him, but he’s still out. He had so many stims in his system, I don’t think he’d slept for at least three days. Likely to be out for the rest of the night, if not longer.”

At Zelda’s determined look, Chakwas smiled again and led her into the medbay. Garrus was laid out on one of cots, stripped from the waist up, head turned to accommodate his fringe with his bad side facing up. The majority was swathed in bandages, ointment and medigel glistening around it, and she could already see where angry, rough scars would be forming on the plates. His mandible was almost unrecognizable, marring the smooth, streamlined look of his face, reminding her of her own scarred body. _Now we match._ His armor was strewn around them on the floor, no doubt ripped off in haste to operate. Shepard had seen him in his undersuit before, but had never seen a naked turian (even partially), and observed the long planes of grey plates broken only by soft swatches of tawny skin with unabashed curiosity.

Unable to stop herself, she ran a hand gently along the side of his face, skirting the bandage with a fingertip. The plates were softer, more pliable than she had originally thought, the texture reminding her of a bumpy pebble, not rough, but ridged slightly, and was warm to the touch. She wondered if that was fever, or his normal temperature.

“Get well soon, Vakarian,” she told him, leaning close. “I need you up and at ‘em.” That swelling filled her heart, looking at his relaxed limbs, the rise and fall of his carapace, his nose moving just barely as he breathed.

_He’s okay._

“Thank you, Chakwas.” She turned to the doctor, grateful to have her here with her.

“Of course,” replied the doctor easily, looking at Garrus with a fondness in her gaze. “I’m glad to have our officer back, even if he hasn’t properly greeted me yet.”

With a few more reassurances and general gratuity, Shepard left the medbay, a huge weight lifted from her heart. Her feet almost carried her to the galaxy map upstairs (and how beautiful the map was, so much bigger than her old one), but she remembered that Miranda’s office was were her old cabin had been. A glance toward the medbay was enough to start her in that direction instead.

“Commander? What can I do for you?” Lawson sounded surprised, but cool, all business as usual, typing away at her desk.

“I just wanted to thank you,” Shepard said, refusing to allow her eyes to dart away. “I know we haven’t seen eye to eye, but without you, Garrus might not have recovered.”

Now she actually _had_ caught Miranda off-guard. Her hands slowed, then stopped on the console in front of her. Her mouth was open for a split-second as she processed the words, then she was recovered, but Shepard had seen the shock and a part of her warmed to the operative because of it. “It’s no problem. I would do it for anyone here. I’m hoping I don’t have to, however.”

“Me too, Lawson, me too.”

A beat passed, then Miranda was typing away again, eyes lit up by the orange light. “So where are we headed next, Commander?”

“Collecting the Professor, finally.” Shepard smiled as Miranda met her eyes, shaking her head good-naturedly. “Would you like to come?”

There was a slight smile in return on the brunette’s face as she replied, “Yes. I would.”

“Meet you at the airlock in thirty, then.” Shepard held up a hand as she left, weight lifted even further from her chest.

_Maybe I can do this, after all._

 

* * *

 

_I'm not calling you a ghost,_

_Just stop haunting me_

_And I love you so much_

_I'm gonna let you kill me._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading these chapters so far! I know right now is kind of filler chapter, but I'm doing my best to make it interesting before we get to the juicy Shrios stuff. Ew. I hate myself for saying juicy. Regardless, thank you!


	3. Swimming

 

Going to Korlus was really, _really_ the last thing Zelda wanted to do.

    She was pacing in her cabin, arms tangling and winding as she stretched them in a vain attempt to relax. Garrus had woken up a little bit after she had left for Omega again, so it was with a little impatience that she herded the quick-talking, observant salarian onto her master mission. She couldn’t find it in herself to be sharp with him, though, even if he seemed a little...unfocused. He was brilliant, that was obvious, but he was also an accomplished killer, and something about that aesthetic pleased her. A bundle of contradictions wrapped in a white lab coat and a missing cranial horn, her mind wasn’t made up about him, but she was looking forward to trying a ground mission with him. His proficiencies seemed like a good fit with her and Garrus’s talents on the field.

Before she had left Omega, though, she had descended into the markets, vorcha stink and general scum overloading her senses, to pick up a new suit of turian armor, the best she could find. It was worth its weight in credits, even with charming the elcor into a lower price. But playing favorites was a rookie mistake, so some hefty upgrades were also purchased with Solus’s (and by extension, the rest of Normandy’s scientists) approval. If he could produce half of what he was talking about, she would be very impressed.

She had also picked up a bottle of the sweetest, strongest whiskey she could find. Wrex would have been proud.

 _Okeer_ , her mental reminder chimed. They were en route to the Blue Suns base already, but Lawson had advised on studying the dossier, with included several old news vids and even some text reports from obscure networks, surely long gone by now. It would have been fascinating if she knew more about krogan politics than just what Wrex had relayed to her, but he, like most krogan, wasn’t exactly engrossed on the subject.

But the datapad in her hand was swiftly forgotten as her mindless pacing lead her into her private bathroom ( _really, Cerberus?_ ) with its large, intimidating mirror. Almost by accident she looked into the mirror, which she had been avoiding as much as she could. She knew it was stupid, childish even, but the primal fear of confronting that which was written, literally, on her face was so strong that even the ironfist that was her willpower couldn’t force her to look. Brushing her hair and arranging it into a commander-and-soldier accommodating style was all done without a mirror, and she stubbornly ( _fearfully_ ) avoided glancing up when brushing her teeth or showering.

But now, her face was set dead in front of her, pale, cold, and she was frozen in her reflection’s glare, a deer in the headlights, transforming the lion heart of Commander Shepard into the rabbit heart of Zelda.

The face before her was similar to her old one -- so, so, close, but not quite right. She had never been a particularly vain girl, growing up a military brat, always admiring her mother’s scars, as her father had.

_“They’re hideous,” her mother had cried, tears dripping from her eyes as she stared at herself in the mirror. “I’m not a woman anymore, I’m a soldier.”_

_At the time, Zelda had thought she was being vain. Now, she empathized with her mother, only too aware of the difficulty of reconciling beauty and power, of ferocity and tenderness._

_But her father had held her mother, joining her in looking at her heavily scarred stomach. He had wrapped his arms around her waist, hands resting gently on the puckered strips of skin. A gentle kiss was placed on her cheek, then he said, “You’re both, Hannah, and I wouldn’t have you any other way. Your scars are beautiful because they are a part of you.”_

_(Later, Zelda would learn that her mother was so emotional due to pregnancy, which explained a lot about her behavior.)_

She had thought, then, that scars were marks of bravery, a physical reminder of courage that told stories of who you were. She had never felt ashamed of them, instead flaunting them like the wet-behind-the-ears recruit she was. To this day she burned in shame at the memory.

It wasn’t until Akuze that she had learned that scars could be very, very ugly. The long scar jutting through her eye, starting just below her hairline and ending at her cheekbone was off-putting to say the least, and marring on her worst, most insecure days. She definitely wasn’t conceited enough to call it disfiguring, but it had taken her a while to accept it. The mental scars, though, were what she would call disfiguring. Her therapist had called them traumatizing, and told her that she had post-traumatic stress disorder. She had said that Shepard visualized these internal scars as the thick one on her face. Zelda wasn’t sure how that was supposed to help, really, and besides, it didn’t account for the acid burns on her shoulder and neck that left the skin looking like torn plastic.

But now, staring in the mirror, her reflection had no scar. She raised a trembling hand to trace her left eye, as she had many times after Akuze, only to find that her reflection hadn’t lied. No thick, knotted, familiar skin met her fingers. She had guessed as much (it wasn’t exactly hard to notice when what was once a strain on her eye had suddenly disappeared), but pushed it back in her mind, away with the other things she was trying to make fade. The Skeleton Drawer, filled with things that she needed to ignore to focus, to make sure she didn’t snap like a string pulled too tight. Project Lazarus was stuffed away in there, along with Toombs, her father’s death, her relationship with Kaidan, and now the fact that her body, her own damn body, was a stranger to her.

It was like witnessing the uncanny valley just a step ahead of you, teetering toward the brink.

Her blue eyes seemed too bright, almost artifical against her now swallow, pale skin, once a desireable mixture of her father’s deep tan and her mother’s creamy white. It looked like a corpse’s skin, except for the little glowing scars that wound through it, cybernetic lights peeking through as if to remind everyone that she was a walking abomination. Black hair seemed too dark against the space-cold skin, too jarring against the sharp planes that were her cheekbones. She felt like all angles and points, bones jutting out from where her body had atrophied. _Atrophied_. Lawson had assured her that her body would return to normal, soon, but that intaking a high amount of calories would speed up the process. As if that was going to be easy, as biotics already ate for two. Besides, she didn’t have much of an appetite these days. Lawson had also assured her that would come back, but given how furiously Shepard had questioned her about Lazarus once they had settled into the ship, it was entirely plausible she was just saying whatever she needed to keep the commander from throttling her.

Her fingers trailed down her face, pausing to paw at spots that had once held little raised lines, now completely smooth, soft. _My face hasn’t been this clear since high school_ , she mused, fascinated and a little horrified of the thin glowing lines that were her new scars. The rest of her body was pressed with the same cracks, she knew. They pulled uncomfortably when she moved, little aching pinpricks that stretched unwillingly, as though pushing her luck would cause them to rip open. Dr. Chakwas had explained that she could get rid of them with the right equipment, but they both knew Shepard wouldn’t put vanity ahead of her team, so it was out of the option, for now. (Spending a few credits to get herself wasted, on the other hand, she deemed important and inexpensive enough.)

A sigh escaped her lips, fingers now tugging listlessly at the limp black hair falling around her shoulders. Some of the strands caught with snarls on her fingers, and with a grimace she unknotted them, looking for a hairbrush in the drawers under the sink. She found one made of cheap black plastic, standard military regulation, and couldn’t be more grateful. The slow, familiar action of working through the tangles was soothing, forcing her rabbit’s heart to return to its regular pace. Calming mantras worked through her head as she finished the action, pulling half the strands back and securing them with an elastic, letting the rest fall loose. Ponytails gave her headaches, especially on long missions, and she had a feeling this would be one.

As she placed the brush back into the drawer, she forced herself to meet her reflection’s eyes. It wasn’t any easier the second time, but while she stared, she could collect all the things that disturbed her, that -- if she was being honest -- scared her, and shove them back into the Skeleton Drawer at the back of her mind. _Too many things, too many things, but I do what needs to be done. If I try to deal with all of them at once, I’ll drown. I just need to swim._

“Commander?” Joker’s voice called over the comm, making her jump. “ETA to Korlus is thirty minutes.”

“Thanks, Joker,” she said, already out of her room, hand on the elevator control, already feeling a little bit lighter. Garrus was feeling better, mentioning that he wanted to get back onto the field with her, and besides, she had a new scientist salarian to break in.

 

Mordin was proving to easily become one of her favorite crew members, at the rate he was going.

The quick-talking salarian had turned out to be quick-shooting as well. Garrus and Shepard sent impressed looks at each other behind his back as he advanced on a group of Blue Suns, three pistol shots ringing out with spurts of blood not far behind, then he turned, alien grin on his wide mouth. “Feels good to be back in action. Medicine has slow effects. Like instant gratification.”

Having Garrus at her side too was like scratching a particularly annoying itch. They fell in step like they were twins, and they sort of were, born and baptized in the blood of the battlefield. He matched her shot for shot, step for step, pressing heatsinks into her palm when she held it out with nary a word, feeling rather than seeing each other move around the field. It was like having a pair of eyes on the back of her head, except these eyes had expert training and a passion for sniper rifles.

She hadn’t gotten much of a chance to talk to her favorite turian yet, as it was. Her overtaxed, traitorous body had demanded rest when she returned from Omega for the second time, mentally and physically exhausted from the day’s events. Still, she had staggered into the medbay to see him, vorcha blood crusting over the bright sheen of black armor, heart still beating hard.

_There’s a beat as she meets his eyes, that hard lump back in her throat, heart standing still. Then he’s smiling, as much as he can with his bandaged face, blue eyes still guarded, but so much warmer than before. Relief floods through her like a heavy dose of morphine, making her heart slow almost too quickly, bringing exhaustion with it. She’s almost too relaxed, now, heart lighter than she can remember it in -- in two years._

_“Garrus!” she says a little too quickly, once her lips want to work again. “You’re up! Finally. Already slacking off on our mission, I see.”_

_His good mandible extends outwards in a wider grin, then rapidly withdraws with a look of pain. “You know me, Commander, always the lazy one,” he retorts, despite bringing his hand to his bandage, mouth opening and closing experimentally, razor-spined teeth glinting in fluorescent lights._

_“Why did I ever bring you on?” Shepard continues, still smiling, but her voice is laced with concern. She moves to stand by his bed, resting her hand on the pillows bunched up to accommodate for his fringe._

_He gazes up at her, a look of gratefulness on his face, and that lump is back._ If we had shown up too late... _Their talk lapses into the meat and potatoes of their Collector problem, including the decision to work with Cerberus, which almost sent Shepard spinning with anxiety for how to explain that one to him. Toombs is in the back of her mind the whole time, haunted face a painting of expressions and experiences no words can ever do justice to, and she knows Garrus is seeing him too. He doesn’t object, though, just listens thoughtfully while she explains herself, graciously pretending he doesn’t hear when she stumbles over her words. He doesn’t ask for details on Lazarus, even if he can’t avoid peeking at the scars glowing through her skin. When she’s done, or at least when she’s explained herself as best she can, he stays silent for a few seconds, and she can practically see his mind whirling as it draws conclusions. It’s the same look he had on the SR-1, when they debated the morality of the law and the benefits of bending it. When he does speak, it’s practical questions, things she herself had demanded knowing of Lawson (and Taylor, when Lawson wouldn’t cooperate), and she tells him everything honestly. (She does, however, send him a message to explain the bugs on the ship, and offers her nearest time to talk freely.) He seems remarkably satisfied, considering Toombs’s blood ghosting through the conversation about Cerberus’s experiments, and when she questions him about it, his good mandible flicks out again briefly._

_“You realize this plan has me following you into hell too, right?” There’s a beat where she thinks he’ll turn away like Tali, turn around and leave her fumbling, no familiar ground to stand on -- then he shakes his head and chuckles. “Just like old times.”_

_She doesn’t mention that ‘old times’ for her was only a few weeks ago._

_There’s no discussion of feelings, no mention of the bodies in his base at Omega, of the hardness that turns his bright blue eyes to a furious steel, of the straining of his subvocals. He doesn’t mention her scars, the tremble of her hands that hasn’t seemed to abate yet, the hoarse sound of her voice and how intently she’s looking at him, as if she looks away he’ll disappear. This isn’t the time. Neither of them really know if there ever will be a time, but for now, this isn’t it._

_Shepard suspects she isn’t the only one with a Skeleton Drawer._

So, with dangerous doctor and turian twin in tow, Shepard pushed on, EDI noting directions in her ear amongst the screams and bullets. Zelda’s head was buzzing, senses overwhelmed with the sensations and stimuli from the battlefield, but it was a good sensation, a sharpening one. She almost felt drunk -- time seemed to be relative, her feet seemed to be flying, and she saw things stream past her as though they were oil paint, only stopping to a point when she commanded them to -- but it was sobering, not hindering. It was confidence, the trust of having deadly men at her flank ready to kill; it was bloodlust, the building need to move, to destroy, to triumph, a haze of need and satisfaction; and it was _enjoyment_ , the feral, wild joy that coursed through her as her body flushed endorphins through her system at every successful shot, the feeling of being completely in control of the world around her. In this moment, she was a goddess, the alpha and omega, ending and beginning as she saw fit, the elements bending to her will as she commanded. Oh, it was the best drug she could have imagined, this feeling of control, and she wanted to stay high for as long as she could, greedily drinking in the death and destruction around her, anything to stay high, to keep her head swimming.

But she came down eventually, as she knew she had to. She could feel her body wearing down fast, as it was prone to, it seemed. Atrophy, and all. The tremor in her hands had increased, so she was trying to stick to less exerting biotic attacks (as well as ones that didn’t require as much aiming), but there were so many mercs, and so many krogan, so by the time they made it to Okeer her body was positively screaming for oxygen. _Goddamn stairs._

The Warlord was impressive, but he spoke of things too far beyond, voice cracking, splintering like bark on an ancient tree. She tried to sympathize with what he yearned for, but it reminded her of speaking with the rachni queen -- hearing the world through a dead language, through a window thousands of years old. She (by product of her species) was still too young to the galaxy to understand exactly the consequences of the genophage, but the pain in the old krogan’s voice was universal.

Then, they were interrupted by that same goddamn merc leader who they’d been hearing all day, and Shepard crossed her arms impatiently.

Once the narcissistic merc (and her heavy mechs, and her half-formed army of krogan) was dealt with, they were heading back up the stairs to collect Okeer, slapping medigel anywhere armor hadn’t protected, when EDI sounded in their ears.

“Shepard. Okeer’s lab is rapidly filling with toxins.”

“Fuck,” was her only comment as they stormed up the stairs, pounding on the door uselessly until the lab’s computer made an alarmed noise from inside, then informed the group that the emergency vents were on. The door unlocked, and they burst inside, only to see Okeer’s body crumpled to the floor, terminal flickering above him. That ancient-bark voice filled the silence in the room, shattering the shock of suicide, and as they wandered in, Shepard came to stand in front of the tank that the dead man was trusting her with his final words. _My legacy._

“Joker, Okeer’s...not an option. But we did get one parting gift from him. Requesting package pickup.” She turned off the radio, locking eyes with Garrus, who was standing next to her, turning his head from where he’d been observing the tank-bred krogan. “And he’s a big one.”

 

* * *

 

 

Mordin seemed agitated when Shepard came into the lab later, long fingers twitching sporadically over the terminal on the lab table. The seeker bug buzzed angrily in its glass case behind her, reminding her of a giant cockroach. She fought the urge to shiver.

“Shepard. How can I help?” The doctor sounded friendly, despite not looking up. She hesitated where she was, unsure how to ask. Her mind had been swimming ever since Korlus, the opportunity to active the krogan extremely tempting. Her plan was to run to the cargo bay and hit the button, but finding Jacob and Miranda arguing over just that had made her pause. While she had initially rebelled against taking Lawson’s advice ( _like a bitchy teenager_ ), logic overrode emotions in the end, which she considered a personal victory. _You’d think I’d be better at that, as a soldier,_ she had thought with some chagrin. Her emotions had always been fierce, and sometimes hard to quell, even at her age. She’d thought the military had beat that out of her, squashed under the weight of duty and responsibility, but it seemed her recent, er, awakening had proved a catalyst for all sorts of things.

Mordin had finally looked up in her silence, face still a mask of polite expectance, but his rapidly blinking lids betrayed him, huge black eyes glossy. That was easiest to attack, so she took the bait.

“Have you got a moment to talk? You seem a little...distracted.”

He didn’t beat around anything, instead jumping right in, which surprised her quite a bit. A product of the short-lived culture? Just Mordin’s personality? Regardless, she appreciated his effectiveness.

The salarian didn’t seem uncomfortable as he admitted his “lie of omission”, as he termed it. The question about his personality vs. his species was shot from her mind before it even fully formed as he explained his work with the Special Tasks Group ( _is that how the horn was lost?_ ), and then, the genophage.

A curling tendril of worry grew in her gut as she asked hesitantly, “What was the Special Tasks Group doing with the genophage?”

Mordin had turned around, staring at the window at the stars beyond, purple and blue tendrils flickering as they soared through space. He didn’t hold her gaze when he turned back to the table, only glancing up briefly as if to see she was still there. “Study, at first, as I said. But uncovered surprising data. Krogan were adapting. Evolving. Overcoming disease.”

Wrex flashed in her mind, all rough, throttling voice, rugged scars, small red eyes. Did the krogan know? Could they tell? What would this mean to them, to the war-torn, ragged desolation of Tuchanka? “The genophage was a terrible mistake. Now they have a chance to recover, to rebuild their culture.”

A look of well-worn disappointment in Mordin’s eyes. Pity? It was the expression of someone who knows how much smarter they are than others, and she prickled at the look instantly. “Naive viewpoint. Krogan too dangerous to allow unchecked birthrate. Look at Krogan Rebellions.”

Before she could think of a rebuttal, he continued, voice gaining speed. “Personally led a science team. Geneticists, chemists, sociologists, mathematicians.” He took a deep breath. “Created new version of genophage. Released it on Tuchanka, other krogan-centric areas. Restabilized krogan population.” While his words came out calmly, logically, with no emotions attached, the weight and slowness with which he delivered them was a tell that she didn’t quite know him well enough to really understand, but the gravity of the situation was obvious.

She was at a loss for words for a moment, trying to wrap her head around what he was telling her. The first thing that clicked was _Now I see why Cerberus valued him so highly._ The second was an indignant, scornful “Did you not consider _other_ options?”, trying and failing to keep her voice neutral. Okeer was still fresh in her mind, his limp body lying prone next to his legacy, all grandeur and raw power made transparent in death.

Mordin was much more susceptible to her indignation than he tried to pretend. There was another quick flash of disappointment, maybe a tired sort of look in his huge eyes, as though this wasn’t the first time he’d had this conversation and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. “Hundreds. Thousands! Modified genophage best outcome. Stabilized population. Avoided publicity that could incite krogan anger! Averted potential genocide or devastating war. Best solution for whole galaxy, krogan included.” His pacing was restless, helpless, hands waving urgently as if to make her understand. She watched, still absorbing his words, when his worried feet finally came to a rest and he looked at her, expression a combination of pleading and frustration.

“If the krogan are so dangerous, why not just sterilize them outright?” she demanded, voice more heated than she meant to let slip. She knew she had no right to challenge him like this, to press for answers to a problem that had emerged centuries before she was born, but Wrex’s voice was still in her ear. _The genophage is a lot easier to swallow when all krogan are savage monsters, isn’t it?_

Mordin, to his credit, looked appalled, then insulted, eyes narrowing dangerously. “Not a murderer! Not a war criminal! Genocide _unnecessary_.”

She felt repulsed, almost a little sick. _Unnecessary? Not horrific, or evil. Unnecessary._

“Krogan as a whole, violent, aggressive. Still have outliers. Worth saving.” He almost didn’t seem to be talking to her now, eyes looking everywhere but hers. “Genophage modification protected galaxy, allowed krogan chance to survive. Everybody wins. Good for us, good for them!” His voice had turned shrill, loud, and suddenly Shepard realized he wasn’t arguing with her anymore.

It jolted her, seeing his face stricken with what looked suspiciously like guilt, before it was covered with another impassable mask. _Some things really are universal._

A tendril of regret for her arguments wound through her, mixing clumsily with her repulsion and confusion. It was clear this conversation had been difficult for Mordin, whether or not he actually felt guilt over the genophage modification, and she felt ashamed for prying into an open wound. While she definitely didn’t agree with what he’d done, she understood his reasoning, and she supposed that was all she really needed.

The silence was almost unbearably awkward now while they both collected themselves, Mordin fidgeting with his coat, Zelda organizing her thoughts into the best thing to say. She made sure to hold his gaze as she said, “I doubt you’ve told many people this, Mordin. I appreciate you letting me know.”

A quick pass of relief on his face, and he relaxed instantly, hands finally dropping back to his sides. “Wanted you to know I’m willing to do what’s necessary. Wanted to clear the air. Mission too important to keep secrets.”

She nodded in return, turning to leave the room with a promise to let him know she didn’t think worse of him. “Thanks for talking. I’ll see you later.”

Outside the lab, she let loose a sigh, running a hand through her hair, and headed toward the elevator with a purpose in her step. If there was one thing she had learned from talking with Mordin, it was that she knew what to do about her little present in the Cargo Bay.

 

* * *

 

 

_Your songs remind me of swimming, but I can't swim anymore..._

_Take a deep breath, suck the water in my chest_

_And cross my fingers, then I hope for the best_

_Your songs remind me of swimming, which I forgot when I started to sink._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's read and left kudos! I hope everyone is enjoying it so far; I'm having a blast writing it, especially because I can't wait to get to the real fun stuff (oh Thane). Also, I've decided that I want to do a ME3 fic, but it will be completely headcannon and a spec fic. (Spec like speculation, right? I know it's not speculation anymore, but I'm not sure what else to call it. AU, maybe?) I haven't decided yet if that will be a part of this one, or if I'll create a new story, but I'm already thrilled. I'm very inspired by The Thirty-Six Stratagems of Wang Jingze by Mussimm (https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6591642/1/The-ThirtySix-Stratagems-of-W%C3%A1ng-J%C3%ACngz%C3%A9), which is easily my favorite Shrios story of all time. Of all time! Give it a read if you're interested, it's incredible. Thanks again for reading! I hope to have the next chapter up soon!


	4. St. Jude

Chapter 4 -- St. Jude

 

The Main Battery had been transformed, bright lights in place of the low red ones to allow visibility around the tool-littered main floor of the forward batteries. A bunk had been set up in the corner, sheets perfectly made with military scrutiny, a few datapads and even a magazine strewn across it. The glossy pages were open, glinting in the white light, catching Zelda’s eye immediately as she stepped in. It appeared to be a rifle catalogue, at least of what she could make out from it, marks from what she knew from training was a turian language lining the pictures.

She couldn’t help but smile, warmth flooding through her. As soon as Chakwas had given him the go-ahead, Garrus had practically bolted from the medbay, settling into the Main Battery as though it had been designed for him. Shepard had been down to see him a few times before, usually bringing some lunch with her ( _A few extra credits for ravioli was so worth it_ ), catching up on some of the events of the past couple years. They danced around the heavier topics, skirting questions and brushing off answers they knew were too personal. Despite trying to respect his privacy, to avoid that cold, steely glint in his normally friendly eyes, she couldn’t help an edge of concern that had begun to plague her. He was relatively vague about the specifics of his activities on Omega, considering that he was pretty open when answering her questions.

She had come down today with a purpose in mind; they had gotten back from Purgatory about an hour ago, and her newest recruit was now lurking below Engineering, reminding Shepard a little too much of a feral dog. But something about Jack had struck her into a sort of daze, and it didn’t have anything to do with her tattoos and abrasive, nettling words -- though those certainly added to the effect. She snarled like a rabid dog, but her eyes had this pleading look, like a puppy, and the obvious anger that she shielded herself in had made a foreboding feeling come to mind, one Zelda couldn’t really place until she had met Garrus’s eyes on his way to the armory.

It had made sense then, like a cough clearing her lungs. She had spent the rest of her time cleaning her armor in a mechanical process, a comforting way to keep her hands busy while her brain raced ahead, drawing parallels between Jack and Garrus that she knew were far-fetched. Feeling a little embarrassed for acting like a mother hen, she had tried to put the worry to bed, chiding herself as she took a shower, cleansing both the blood from her hair and the thoughts from her head. Or, at least, trying too. Her hair was clean but her head wasn’t, so with a self-indulgent sigh she had called the elevator to the crew deck.

Garrus didn’t look up from where he was at the belly of the battery, eyes narrowed, hands fiddling with several wires. Out of his heavy new armor, he looked smaller, maybe a little less imposing, but not any less intimidating -- fatigues clinging tightly to the jutting angles of his body, highlighting the elegant, aerodynamic planes that evolution had so tediously built, he was an apex predator manifesto. He was humming something, a song Shepard didn’t know, but the dual tones of his voice were incredibly soothing, so she didn’t interrupt him, instead going through the gate to stand near him, leaning against the wall with her arms behind her head.

They shared a companionable peace, Garrus’s humming almost lulling Zelda to sleep, who had closed her eyes. She opened them reluctantly when his song finished, and was a little surprised to find him looking at her, a curious sort of expression on his face. At least, she knew from experience that it was curiosity, but on a turian’s face without context, it was a shrewd, predatory gaze that would leave any prey shirking away from the intensity.

Sometimes her familiarity with Garrus caused her to forget that they were different species, or anything but battleborn twins, but then his blood-hungry stare would sweep past her in firefights, needle-like teeth bared in an involuntary snarl, and the chill that trickled down her spine like cold water would bring the point home. She had experienced it multiple times during their hunt for Saren, especially the first few times he’d been on her ground team, but like Wrex’s wide-set eyes and Tali’s mask, she had gotten used to it. Slowly, her team had become less _alien_ and more _partners_ , to the point where it jolted her to be reminded that her friends were, in fact, different species. Now, though, this jolt was more like a slap in the face: she had never before seen the intensity, the aggressiveness that Garrus was displaying recently, which, she surmised, was why Jack had brought him to mind.

“What song was that?” she asked, watching as he cleaned some oil off his hands with a dirty rag.

There was a sheepish look on his face. “Fire in the Courtyard. It’s...from the Fleet and Flotilla soundtrack.”

She couldn’t stop the smirk from winding along her lips, which he returned with a long-suffering glance. “Didn’t know you were a cinephile, Garrus.”

He turned his back on her with a shake of his head, heading up the stairs to sit on a crate that rested at the edge of his bed.

“Does this mean I have to take you to see the new Blasto?” Shepard continued, following him up the stairs, settling herself cross-legged on his bed.

He reclined, catching her eye with a grin. “Actually, yes. Did the Illusive Man forget to put that in my contract?”

“It must’ve slipped his mind,” she laughed, beaming. “I’ll have to write him a strongly worded letter.”

“Let me know when you do, Shepard, because I have a few more complaints he should really address.”

“I’ll get Miranda on it soon as possible.” Their chuckles died down, fading into a comfortable silence. Unsure how to segue into “how did your team die?”, she let the mention of Cerberus lead her on. Hopefully the conversation would follow. _Because that’s how you address elephants in the room, right?_

“How is the crew treating you?”

He looked a little surprised by the question. “No one’s threatened me, if that’s what you’re asking. I think being the Commander’s favorite might have something to do with that, though.”

“Please. As if you’re my favorite.”

“Shepard, you wound me. Who is it then? I’m sure Jack is stiff competition.”

Shepard snickered, watching as Garrus shifted position, sitting up. “Goto, of course. She’s the only one of you punks that doesn’t question my authority.”

Garrus smiled, but looked thoughtful, tone sobering. “She’s an interesting piece. Reserved. Respectful.”

She nodded. The little thief was growing on her, despite being enigmatic and always under her damn cloak. She was a good shot, and sharp. Shepard appreciated her quickness, especially her creativity in some of the tighter spots they’d been in. “How do you feel about the rest of the crew?”

He made another pleasant humming noise, reminding her of Fire in the Courtyard, and a grin almost threatened to break out. She hid it behind her hand. “Mordin’s friendly enough, if confusing. Zaeed is a grumpy old man -- reminds me a little of my grandfather. Don’t tell him I said that,” he added quickly, exchanging looks with Shepard.

“No promises,” she shot back, but he was already moving on, rolling his eyes.

“It’ll be interesting to work with Grunt, whenever you think he’s ready. Same goes for Jack, if she’s ever ready. As for our resident Cerberus watchdogs…” He cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders as he shifted positions again. “Jacob hasn’t said much since he and Miranda gave me the mission briefing -- the formal one, mind you. I can’t decide if I like him for that or not. And I’m sure you know Miranda better than me. Kasumi referred to her as an ‘Ice Queen.’ Human thing, I’m assuming.”

Shepard shook her head in agreement, fiddling with a few loose stitches on her jacket. It had a Cerberus logo on the breast, but the ship was pretty chilly most of the time, so she had shouldered it with a grimace. They were en route to the Citadel anyway, where she figured a few new clothes wouldn’t go amiss in the budget. _And besides, it’s on the Illusive Man’s tab._

“Anything like your old squad?” she finally asked, gauging Garrus’s reaction with a careful eye.

A look of understanding was in Garrus’s blue eyes, as though he’d known her true intent the whole time. His expression was resigned, and Zelda opened her mouth to supply a platitude, an out, but he stopped her.

“A little,” he said, voice a casket of suppressed emotions. She paused mid-breath, waiting. A few beats passed as he collected himself, expressions rolling across his face like a tidal wave. “A bunch of mismatched souls, looking for justice? Yeah. Sounds a little like us.”

He stood up abruptly, appearing so big from where she was sitting, nearly seven-foot frame towering over her, until he turned to the console and leaned back against it, hands gripping the underside tightly. “We formed not unlike how you formed your team to hunt Saren, actually.”

She wasn’t sure what to say as he paused, so she tried for a light tone. “Which was?”

“Yell loud enough, and someone will eventually come over to see what all the fuss is about,” he said, voice a little lighter now too. His bright eyes gleamed in the white spotlights of the battery as he looked at her. “My tech expert was a batarian, believe it or not. Not the friendliest guy, but he could hack any system ever built.” His gaze was downcast as he added, “Called himself Krul,” almost in a whisper.

Shepard knew he was seeing their bodies.

“Who else was in your squad? Why’d then join up with you?” She was failing at keeping her tone light, she knew, but she also knew what losing a whole squad was like.

“Security consultants, C-Sec officers, mercs wanting to atone, anyone looking for justice.” The console creaked under Garrus’s hands, protesting his tightening grip. “Everyone in our team had lost someone to Omega’s gangs, and wanted to fight back. I gave them something to believe in. I gave them hope!” He flung his arms out, as though grasping for something he used to know, eyes glimmering, piercing as he stared at Shepard, through her, at something he used to have. She stared back, transfixed. Then suddenly his eyes were gone, and she was left frozen. He had turned his back to her, shoulders slumped. “...And now they’re dead. Shows what I know.”

The silence that filled the room was heavy, their peaceful companionship broken with reverence for the dead. Garrus’s guilt was tangible on her shoulders, on her tongue, so as quietly as she could (to not disturb the ghosts in the air) she unfolded her legs from underneath her and set a hand on his shoulder.

He didn’t flinch at the contact, but she felt his muscles coil under her palm, like a cat ready to pounce. Her mind helpfully supplied her with pictures of his predatory stare and teeth, which she shooed away quickly.

“What happened?” The question was logical, factual.

“It was my own damn fault.” The anger seemed to slide out from under him, readily replaced with defeat. “One of my team betrayed me. A turian named Sidonis.” He began pacing, walking out of the room into the hall adjacent, not waiting to see if she was following. They both knew she was, and they both knew she heard the hiss that accompanied the betrayer’s name. “He drew me away just before the mercs attacked my squad, then he disappeared.”

He looked over his shoulder at her, every ounce of apex predator honed in his eyes. “Everyone except me is dead because of him. And because I didn’t see it coming.” The defeat had been pushed back yet again, barely-suppressed rage now returning with the tide.

The lump in her throat swelled with sympathy, and she hastily swallowed it. Sympathy was the last thing Garrus wanted. It had been the last thing she wanted after Akuze, but she hadn’t been betrayed. _So what does Garrus want?_

She knew the answer before the question had finished crossing her mind. Instead she asked, “Do you know what happened to Sidonis?”

Garrus shook his head, eyes focusing far away again. “No. His trail goes cold after he left Omega. But I’ll keep hunting.”

_I know exactly what he wants._

“I lost my whole team, except for Sidonis. One day I’ll find him, and correct that.” If looks could kill, she’d be dead ten times over. Those same chills from his evolutionary advantages were racking her spine, primal instincts begging her to flee from the dangerous bloodlust in his hunter’s eyes, calculating, razor-sharp, _cold._

He seemed to catch himself, and shook his head as if to clear it. A mildly embarrassed look was on his face, and he gave her a half-shrug as if in apology. However, he was still obviously distracted, words catching as he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Thanks for coming by, Shepard, I’ve got a few things to take care of.”

With that, he walked past her, ignoring her dazed, half-recovered “Oh, okay”, and shut the door behind him.

_Revenge._

 

* * *

 

Seeing Anderson had been strange, but at this point Shepard felt pretty used to the _what the hell_ stare she was the recipient of. She had ignored most of the Citadel’s amazed looks, if they happened to recognize her -- which was all too common, unfortunately. It wasn’t until about her third shop with an awestruck shopkeep that she realized why some of the looks she was getting were dirty.

_They think I faked my death._ What else would they think? They certainly wouldn’t believe that she had been brought back from the dead -- and if she had been in a coma, why had there been no news?

It didn’t really surprise her that she hadn’t realized it sooner -- the topic of Project Lazarus was taboo on the ship, to the point where even Miranda shied away from uttering the phrase. She was embarrassed, ashamed, really, that her weakness was so obvious, and that disturbed her to the core. It was utterly bizarre to feel so _afraid_. She was Commander Shepard, skin of stone, eyes of fury and heart of a lion -- she hadn’t watched people die around her during N6 training just for fun. ICT had beaten with bloody fists to the ground any weaknesses her mind or her body had once had, then spit on them for good measure. She’d stared down death too many times to count, gun pressed to his slimy white temple, so why was she faltering now, just because he had won once? In the grand scheme of things, she was still winning in their little competition, and if that was all she had to take comfort in, by god she would milk it for all it was worth.

There would be political repercussions, she knew, but she didn’t want to chase that thread right now, knowing all too well she would lose the end, so she spared a passing thought for Cap-- _Councilor_ Anderson and a passing sneer for the council. _Let them rot in their little mess._

Chewing on her lip ( _such a bad habit, Zelda! Her mom had always said)_ , she went to yank Mordin away from the nonplused shopkeeper, sliding a credit chit across the counter with a knowing look in her eye. She was being too bitter, she knew; and at least they had restored her Spectre status. That was something, even if ‘something’ just meant shiny new guns and a few other perks. _But there is no way in hell I’m reporting to them again._ Besides, with the Alliance technically declaring her dead, her rank as Lt. Commander was a little confusing, so she supposed she shouldn’t be arguing with being given authority.

Mordin collected his new datapads happily as the balking shopkeep handed her back the credit chit, already explaining what the new research meant for upgrading the Normandy, specifics and terms flying way above her head. Garrus joined them with a knowing look, and she was about to give one or both of them a warning when a voice, shrill and tinny, sounded in her ear.

“Uh, Commander?” It was Joker, using that _uh_ voice she teased him about so often. “If you’re done there, the Illusive Man says he needs to see you, ASAP.”

Either her teammates had overheard her, or already recognized the furrowing of her brows. Regardless, they were turned to where she stopped, looking at her curiously. She shrugged them off, making a bemused shape with her mouth.

“Okay, I’ll be there in ten.”

 

The Illusive Man was waiting for her, poised, collected, aloof. He reminded her of a Doberman Pincher, proud, regal, eyes lined with gold, which she supposed was fitting. His cigarette was leaving his lips as the scanner reached her eyes, his own boring into her with that unnerving robotic stare.

“Shepard! I think we have them.” He sounded more excited than she’d ever heard him. “Horizon -- one of our colonies in the Terminus Systems -- just went silent. If it hasn’t be attacked yet, it soon will.”

She furrowed her brow, toying with her braid as she absorbed the information. _We haven't actually faced the Collectors on the field yet..._

“Has Professor Solus delivered the countermeasure for the seeker swarms?”

Shaking her head, she dropped her arms from where they had been crossed over her breast. “Not yet.”

“Let’s hope he works well under pressure, then.” She nodded idly in agreement, not really paying attention now. Her mind was straining to recall everything she could from Freedom’s Progress and Veetor’s screens, flying through positions, formations, techniques that could hit the strange aliens the hardest.

“There’s something else you should know.” The Illusive Man’s voice cut in over her flurried planning. His mechanical eyes gleamed unnaturally bright under the shadows cast on his face from the molten star that served as his backdrop. “One of your former crew, Kaidan Alenko, is stationed on Horizon.”

She froze before she could catch herself. _Is he smiling?! Is this a joke  to him, sending me into all these ‘coincidences’ with my former teammates? What the hell is his endgame?_ She couldn’t tell if that really was a smirk under the heavy curtain of shadow, but less than a second passed before she had composed herself again, face a mask of indifference that she had perfected during boot camp. “Last I knew, Alenko was Alliance. Why’s he out of Alliance space?”

Maybe it wasn’t a smirk, but there was definitely a twitch as he shifted in his chair. “Officially, it’s an Alliance outreach program, to improve relations with the outer colonies.” The cigarette crackled to life with an orange burst as he took a drag. “But they’re up to something. And if they sent Staff Commander Alenko, it must be big. Perhaps you should take it up with him.”

It was definitely a smirk.

“The Collectors just happened to pick a colony with one of my former crew? I don’t buy it,” she challenged, taking a step forward.

“It shouldn’t be a surprise that the Collectors are interested in you. Especially if they’re working for the Reapers,” he said matter-of-factly, tone even. “They might be going after him to get to you.”

_Well, at least someone’s going after him. Probably still not a good idea to try and settle what happened between us at the moment._ “Send the coordinates to Joker. We’ll head straight there.”

“This is the most warning we’ve ever had, Shepard. Good luck.”

The connection died, and she was back in the conference room, head in her hands, already feeling the Normandy's core engaging as the ship jumped, leaving a familiar hiccup in her belly.

_People live or die today because of us -- me._

One of her favorite commanders had once told her that, during her first big mission with the Alliance. She had barely been older than 19, fresh out of boot camp, but she’d already been targeted for N-school. The mission was a sort of prerequisite (one of a thousand, it seemed), to deem if they were ready. They had been summoned as ground support during the Alliance offensive against the batarians, during the Skyllian Blitz. His words had stuck with her, rang through her ears above the assualt rifle fire. _People live or die today because of us._

Fingers rubbed furtively against her temples, her eyes, pressure receding automatically at where her scar used to be. That had been her first time watching civilians die, and a glance had separated her fellow Marines into respective categories. It wasn’t the first time her mental stability had been tested, not by a long shot, and definitely not the last, but her captain’s words were in her head, louder than sirens, louder than bells. Since then, it had wormed its way into heart, casting a potent shadow that haunted her every time she held a gun. Her job had never been one she’d taken lightly, but her captain had made sure she never forgot it.

“EDI, get me on the intercom,” she said tiredly, taking a second to give her face one last firm rub.

“Of course, Commander.” The blue orb was blinking, like a vid, so Shepard took her cue.

One deep breath in. “The Illusive Man has just informed me that one of our outer colonies, Horizon, has just gone dark. If they haven’t already been hit by the Collectors, they will be soon, so we’re going to meet them there and just let them try. I need Grunt and Garrus suited and booted, ready to roll as soon as we’re within distance. Stay on your toes, everyone.”

Mordin was waiting for her when she walked into the lab, observing the seeker bug in its tank, looking at her with those introspective eyes as she came to stand beside him.

“Please tell me you have something,” was all she needed to say before he smiled and nodded.

 

The Collector ship was massive, a skyscraper of a vessel, terrifying in might and awe-inspiring in scope. It towered above them as they hopped out of the shuttle, lightning branching along the storm clouds the ship had created. Shepard craned her neck to see it all, the first verges of adrenaline trickling through her as the grip on her pistol tightened.

They started forward into the colony, Garrus on her flank and Grunt at her side, a shared feeling of tension between them. It was eerily silent, no thunder accompanying the lightning, no screams, not even the expected buzzing of the seeker swarms.

“We’re groundside,” she reported, her voice sounding too loud against the uneasy silence. It felt like yelling in a graveyard. “Professor, you sure these countermeasures will protect us?”

She was watching Grunt with a careful eye -- this was his first mission with her, and while Miranda had tried to talk her out of it, saying he had no real combat experience, talking with him had ensured her trust -- when Mordin answered, “Certainty impossible.”

A sputtering noise came from her mouth as Garrus gave an alarmed huff.

“But in limited numbers, should confuse detection, make you invisible to swarms.” _He enjoys being a prick sometimes, doesn’t he?_

“In theory,” was added as she shared a look with Garrus. _Yes, yes he does._

“In theory? That sounds promising,” muttered the turian as they approached what must have been an unloading area.

“Experimental technology. Only test is contact with seeker swarms.” A pause. “Look forward to seeing if you survive!”

She would have rolled her eyes if Grunt hadn’t stopped her, hesitating where he was. “I hear them,” was all he said, looking into the colony before turning to her for guidance.

“Let’s hope our theory holds then,” she mumbled, motioning her team behind her.

As it turned out, Mordin’s theory did hold, and as a result, the bugs turned into more of an annoyance than anything. The first wave of Collectors dropped into the area in front of them, providing them ample time to find cover as they folded in their cicada-like wings and erected physical barriers much like the geth. The seeker swarms buzzed angrily as the first few shots rang out, frustrated that they couldn’t land on the opposing team like huge, paralyzing mosquitoes. The Collectors seemed equally irritated at the skill of her team, as though they had expected her to go down easy, weak biotic barriers draining with a single warp. _Or maybe that was just the evaluation._

Garrus seemed to be thinking the same, eyes shrewd as they advanced onto the now empty field, popping out heat sinks and collecting new ones, the only sounds the soft clink of armor against armor and rustling guns. The seeker swarms had vanished, for the time being, which was a relief, but the silence was back and as unnerving as ever.

But not as unnerving as turning the corner to see a bipedal, giant cicada-alien harvesting a frozen human into a cocoon-like coffin.

    Her battle-cry was more of a shriek, and she knew Garrus would take the mickey out of her for it later, but for now he lept beside her, Mantis shouldered in favor of the wide-splay of his assault rifle. Grunt hesitated for a moment, casting her a glance, as if asking for permission to join his teammate in the carnage. No doubt it was the adrenaline and biotics pumping through her veins, grinding a savage beat into the base of her skull, but her heart swelled stupidly at the gesture. _My little krogan wants to know if he can fight too!_

Later, she would wonder exactly what she had been thinking -- that a _krogan_ would ask permission to fight, Commander or no, but in the moment she was too preoccupied with the enemy in front of her --

There was a huge blur of silver and taupe, blue lights leaving a string of color in her vision, then in front of her, instead of the Collector her Carnifax had been focused on, was Grunt, the feral smile on his wide mouth absolutely terrible, pounding his fists together with a what she could only describe as a roar.

_Shit. I need to get him out more._

Unfortunately, she didn’t have long to dwell on the fact that Grunt was now body-slamming his way through cicada-aliens as more touched down to take their place. She and Garrus worked in tandem, gaining ground when they could, but like most insects, the Collectors were a hoard. They had been right, too: the first round was a test. These enemies were bigger, bulkier, taking more shots and biotics to get through, but her team was tough too. She didn’t try to give direction as much as she normally did, what with their uphill disadvantage, Garrus’s experience, and Grunt having permission to go berserk (however accidentally she may have given that permission), but this wasn’t the Alliance anymore. New squadmates called for new techniques, and Grunt seemed to be doing well, if his savage shouts of “I AM KROGAN” were anything to go by.

Just as it looked like their numbers were finally starting to wear thin, she heard a telltale groan that rang alarm bells in her head, causing her to groan in turn.

Garrus recognized it just as she did. “Husks,” they told each other simultaneously. _Liara would have giggled at that._

_Liara’s not here anymore._

The husks fell as quickly as expected, ugly, deformed bodies twitching jerkily as they were riddled with holes. Soon, the area was quiet again, and Grunt returned to her side, panting heavily. She gave him a quick glance-over, noting the cuts from his up-close-and-personal style, but he was grinning, so she shook her head to hide a small smile, instead clapping him on the shoulder.

Garrus joined them as she approached one of the crumpled husks surrounding her. “These look like the husks the geth used on Eden Prime.”

“I thought the geth got that technology from Sovereign,” he said, examining the prone figure. The blue cybernetics winking at her were new, that was for sure, but the dead eyes were the same, if a bit more mechanical. _They look like the Illusive Man’s eyes._ A heavy concern furrowed her brow, nudging the body with her toe.

Grunt made a low noise, which she guessed was thoughtfulness. “I guess your Illusive Man was right then. Collectors must work for the Reapers,” he said, turning his big head this way and that. “They sort of look human. This what happened to the colonists?”

Garrus responded before she could, relating the geth’s use of Dragon’s Teeth. As he did, she squatted down, looking closer at the husk to see if she could glean any new information. _Nothing. Still look like dead, half-robotic humans. Still…_

“These aren’t the same type I fought on Eden Prime,” she said, eyes narrowed. “They look more...advanced. Evolved. The cybernetics and all those tubes. Sort of looks like Saren.”

Garrus opened his mouth to speak when Grunt interrupted him. “They still die when you shoot ‘em.”

“The Collectors must be experimenting on the colonists…” It hit her like a shockwave. Why else had they come with husks prepared? Why did they take pains to abduct paralyzed humans? “...but why?”

“Maybe it’s better not to know,” Garrus said gravely after the information soaked in.  

She could only nod in agreement, fist clenching around her pistol. “Right. Move out.”

They went further into the colony, guns blazing, biotics blaring. This time, she kept Grunt close to her, grateful for his bulk against the flanking enemies, relating formations to avoid the swarming that had happened earlier. It felt like a million more than previously, and her brain switched to autopilot, shooting, swerving, diving, warping. The world became a watercolor of sickly green blood and cheerful spring grass, droplets of red thinning out around the edges when a cut above her eye wouldn’t stop bleeding, but that was okay -- blood meant she was alive -- and the gun buzzed eagerly in her hands, power flaring out, flushing through her veins to flow through her palm and out her fingers like a black-haired enchantress. Her amp was hot in her neck, adding to the inferno boiling under her skin, a growing grudge against these aliens nudging her on. _That’s for the colonists, you ugly son of a bitch._

**Assuming direct control.**

_...What the hell?_   She almost stopped directly in her tracks at the voice -- _It was in my head, it was talking to me_ \-- had her team heard it? Was that a Collector? What did that mean?

Suddenly one of the Collectors rose in the air, almost limp except for ramrod-straight limbs, gold light, growing every second in intensity, streaming out of widening splinters in its body -- then, with one mighty burst of light, its amber eyes turned directly to her -- blinding her like a flashbang -- **Shepard.**

“What is that?” Grunt asked tersely from a few feet away, raising his voice to be heard over the gunfire. She quickly dipped her head back into cover, blinking rapidly to try and regain her vision.

“I don’t know, but it doesn’t seem good!” **We are the harbinger of your perfection.**

She threw her head toward Garrus to see if he made any sign that he’d heard it, but it didn’t appear so -- though that could be because of the vignette still surrounding her vision. _It sounds like..._

Directing a double concussive shot toward the now-bulkier Collector provided her with enough answers, for now: it still died when they shot it.

**This changes nothing.**

_It sounds like Sovereign._

“I’m not dealing with this Reaper bullshit right now,” she hissed between gritted teeth, jamming in a new heat sink as a customary wave of dizziness passed over her from a particularly long-ranging shockwave.

It seemed like they wanted her to deal with it right now, though, as another Collector was yanked into the air, limbs stiff, gold light crackling around it as it became the new ‘harbinger of their perfection’. The blood was still leaking over her eye, pissing her off further -- the ‘Collector conscience’ or whatever it was that was possessing the drones didn’t want to shut up with each new body, only further hammering home the echoes of remembered Reaper speeches: self-righteous, arrogant, _annoying as fuck._

Luckily for her, though (and maybe her team -- she still wasn’t sure if they could hear it too, or if this was just her punishment for murdering Sovereign), thinning out this wave proved to be over relatively quickly.

She didn’t mention it though, not yet at least -- whether or not they could hear it too was really only a matter of her own sanity -- and soon they were pressing forward once ammo was stuffed into every available pocket and medigel was seeping into every open cut.

The battle fever didn’t stop even when they did, meeting a surviving member of the colonists hidden away in a locked door. The blood thudding in her ears made it hard to concentrate on what the mechanic was saying, but she got the key parts -- they needed the GARDIAN towers online, and pronto -- then the mechanic mentioned Kaidan and the blood froze in her ears.

_Will he turn away like Tali? Will he still think we’re...together? And what will he think about Cerberus? Does he know? No, he can't know..._

She couldn’t get much more out of the mechanic, so she moved on, shoving the sharp pricks of anxiety into her watercolor-world, moving the group out to get the towers online. They had a mission, and standing there, worrying about whether or not seeing an old fling would be awkward, was just pathetic. With that thought, the sharp pricks smoothed away to dull streams, blending in effortlessly to the painting that was her battle fury, a tumultuous river where the mouth was her gun.

They kept moving forward, relentless, formidable. Grunt was a terrifying force of nature, snarling and growling like a rabid dog, laughing loudly and savagely at every body his guns -- and fists -- tore apart. Garrus was a dark knight beside her, strong, sturdy, unwavering, the brains to her (and Grunt’s) brawn, fingers flying with easy accuracy over the trigger, the scope, his omnitool to overload shields in one practiced press.

Soon, they arrived at the starport the mechanic had mentioned ( _still no sign of Kaidan -- Damn I hope he’s not on that ship_ ), and immediately the lack of defense was suspicious. Shepard turned to both her teammates, signalling them to get behind cover ( _they could really come from anywhere when they ambush us_ **\--** because it was a when and not an if) as she started forward to the main terminal.

Her breath felt loud again in the silence, ears still ringing from the bullets and the popping feeling that always accompanied a warp. She was panting, hands trembling faintly, eyes sweeping the area constantly, never settling as she brought up the terminal screen and radioed the Normandy.

“Normandy? Do you copy?” She could feel Garrus’s sharp eyes surveying the area around her, and hoped Grunt was doing the same.

A nervous breath passed as she heard the response. “Joker here. Signal’s weak, Commander, but we got you.”

“Alright, let’s get these dicks the hell out of here. EDI, get the defense towers online.” An all-too-familiar moan punctuated the end of her statement, and she scrambled toward her team, away from the noise, and lined up her sights before EDI even began to talk.

“Errors in the calibration software are easily rectified--” More angry groans, but still no actual visual -- “but it will take time to bring the towers to full power. I recommend a defensive posture--”

“What the hell is that,” Garrus muttered in muted amazement a few feet away from where they both crouched behind cover. He was peering through the scope of his Mantis, and only pulled away to give Shepard a disgusted look -- then squeezed a few shots from it as EDI finished,

“I will not be able to mask the increased generator output.” Garrus’s target made a pained, horrifying scream as his bullets made contact, and then finally wandered into Shepard’s sights and automatically her fingers contracted on the trigger if only to put the abomination out of its misery.

It was the size of two husks, and it almost looked like two had been piled on top of each other to create it -- lurching and gurgling, navy blood splattering the grass as it struggled to put one foot in front of the other -- multiple limbs protruding from its body like they’d been haphazardly stuck on by the world’s most psychotic kindergartener. It was utterly grotesque in appearance, instantly triggering a flight reaction in her gut that few monsters failed to do anymore. Even Grunt seemed bothered, part of his face scrunched in a universal “ew” expression. Almost because of their repulsion it was down quickly, and its dying moans grated on Shepard’s ears as though its main purpose was to add fuel to her already inexhaustive nightmare list instead of actually harming her.

“Bypassing failsafes and attempting emergency power up. Please hold the defense tower.”

Several husks added their zombie-screeches to the mix, arms limp and loose as they barreled toward them. Shepard’s team tore through the undead like they were made of paper, but with each one that fell, another rose to take its place, and soon Collector reinforcements hit the field, bringing with them a wonderful gold-gleaming friend.

**We are your genetic destiny.**

If there was any doubt in her mind before that the Collectors were working with the Reapers, it was completely eradicated now.

But with the enemies came another sweet dose of battle fever, green-blood haze kicking in. Her hands had never felt steadier, her heart beating swiftly, keenly, the drug that was control overdosing her systems. Still, even with control making her feel invincible, the gigantic Collector vessel still loomed over them, who knows how many colonists inside, casting a shadow that they struggled to fight against. Her body was taxing quick, even under the guise of adrenaline, and her shots took on a surge of urgency that surprised her in its intensity.

“GARDIAN anti-ship batteries at 60 percent. Syncing targeting protocols to Normandy’s systems. Continue to protect the tower.”

She vaulted past Garrus as he took a shot, the crack of his rifle leaving a tinning in her head as she sprinted to her next cover. Sliding behind the crate, she whipped a fist at a husk that had gotten too close, knuckles glowing purple -- then splattered with navy -- and lined up her crosshairs with the possessed Collector’s head.

**You will know pain, Shepard.** Its eyes bored straight into hers through her sights, painfully bright, like staring into a spotlight, then she pulled the trigger and its head exploded with a satisfying spray of brain matter.

“Impressive!” called Garrus from somewhere behind, Grunt making an agreeing sound deep in his throat as he pulled his shotgun from behind his back. She had directed them to a mobile defense, due to the large amount of cover and the enemy’s flanking tactics, which seemed to be working so far, especially for Grunt: he was taking his sweet time moving positions, drawing his targets as close as he could to get the most surface area out of the explosion of their heads with his shotgun. _I really need to get him out more often._

He was a beast, hungry in battle in a way many of her crew weren’t -- and it was frightening, really. It wasn’t the same predator’s gaze of the turians, bodies molded for killing and hunting, but rather the prey’s furious determination to survive. It was as much physical for the krogan as it was social, she knew; the krogan adapted to their situations to continue, whether that was evolving to survive or to shunt the genophage. And Grunt was a perfect example, despite being tank-bred. His ‘father’ had taught him the destiny of the krogan, their purpose, and he didn’t question it, instead following through with the best of his ability -- which Okeer had also perfected. All the powerful traits of a species thrown into one body was incredible to watch, even if it was utterly brutal and violent, and she could only thank whoever was listening that Grunt was on her side -- she still had a blotchy plum bruise on her neck from where he had slammed her into the wall after she opened the tank.

It felt like too long, and she was gripped with fear that the Collectors were going to get the whole colony before they ever wore down these reinforcements, but finally the waves died and all that was left was a panting human, a grumbling turian and one delighted krogan.

“What a thrill!” he said, practically bouncing around the area as they gathered as many heat sinks as they could. She would have given him a reprimand if she wasn’t so focused on the sudden lack of enemies, her and Garrus’s eyes working simultaneously to cover the space around them.

“That can’t be all of them,” Zelda said, voice pulled with exhaustion and anticipation. Grunt was sobering as his battle rage flushed out, joining them where they stood at the defense tower terminal, tense, waiting.

Suddenly Garrus twisted his head toward the sky, (reminding her of a dog hearing a noise) and said dryly, “It isn’t.”

The biggest Collector they had seen yet was descending from the sky like some foreboding cloud of doom, shiny chrome surface rendering it blisteringly bright in the colony’s pale-yellow sun. They had bullets speeding towards it as soon as it’d made itself known, backs already pressed to the flat surfaces of the terminal pad, but they ricocheted off uselessly. It landed then, with a lightness that suggested that it could fly and would be doing so often -- she sent her team back to further cover instantly at this speculation -- looking like a huge, lopsided crab as it advanced toward them. Then a storage-type area was revealed near its belly, like a kangaroo’s pouch, showing itself to be lined with neat little rows of husk heads. _Charming._

“EDI!” she yelled as she dived under the Collector’s biotic attack ( _what is that power? I’ve never seen that before_ ) and began a sprint to the furthest side of the area. “We need that system online!”

“It doesn’t take damage when it’s charging up that attack -- our shots are ineffective!” supplied Garrus as the crab-alien rose from its teetering legs, bright blue energy surrounding it in swirls, then slammed itself to the ground, dust and dirt flying from the force of it. She saw Grunt stumble back from the force of it, shields flickering helplessly as they died. _Shit. He’s almost cornered, and he can’t sprint for cover underneath or around that thing, not at his speed,_ she realized, so she pulled herself out of cover and thrust her arm for a shock wave. It worked, despite not doing any real damage -- the creature turned toward her and hovered her way, spindly legs dangling underneath it, husk heads burning blue as it swept a laserbeam her direction.

“GARDIAN anti-ship batteries at 100 percent. I have control,” said EDI calmly from their comms.

“Get on it then!” Shepard cried as the beam narrowly missed her head -- she smelled the singe of burnt hair -- and sunk as low behind her cover as she could.

“Concussive shot ready.” That was Garrus, and she gave him the signal, watching with satisfaction as the alien staggered, dropping to the ground heavily.

“Firing anti-ship batteries at Collector vessel.”

The creature skittered about, husks moaning in their pouch, then began to glow blue, slowing rising in the air...

“Garrus, your three!” she shouted at the top of her lungs, images of him twisting -- _too late, too late_ \-- into the rocket on Omega racing through her head as he threw himself behind cover mid-sprint --

The Collector pummeled down, leaving a crater in the dirt, and Garrus popped up safely from behind his cover to send a few shots into its eyes as it turned them to Shepard again.

She breathed.

“Its barriers are down -- armor at 11 percent -- Shepard --” Garrus’s breathing was punctuated by shots, and Grunt roared over the singing of his SMG, and Shepard yanked her rocket launcher from her back with excitement sizzling over her fingertips -- _I love using this bad boy_ \-- locked, loaded, and shot that puppy with a savage joy -- and they all watched with a cheer as the alien dissolved into bubbles of blue and sparks of white.

Then there was a loud, earthquake-type rumbling, and the cheers died in their throats as they turned to see the Collector ship firing up, the defense towers hammering away at it as best they could, but almost instantly it was up in the stratosphere, disappearing in a long streak of smoke and light, and the only thing left of the colonists was the reverberating images of the horizon through the heat.

Shepard’s mind was going a million miles a second, heart still hammering from their brush with the crab-creature, and she scanned the sky fruitlessly as though staring after the ship would bring back the half-colony she was missing.

“Got about a third of the colony,” Garrus finally said, sighing, and she could only nod her head dumbly. An internal war was waging within her -- be angry at herself for not saving them, or resolutely accept that there was nothing she could do. Most of her didn't really care -- she felt like she was going to fall asleep where she was, which pushed most other thoughts from her head.

Then the mechanic from earlier ran by, toward the last traces of the ship, which was just circular clouds and some bolts of lightning as though he could catch it on foot. “No! Don’t let them get away! Half the colony is in there!”

She felt her jaw tighten on instinct. “It’s too late. They’re already gone. There’s nothing we can do.”

“No! They took Cam and Elfoy...and Lilith! Do something!”

She was tired, body trembling with overuse, practically crying for some calories; she was taxed, she was frustrated, and she was going to punch out the man’s teeth if he kept demanding shit of her like it was a fucking magic show.

“If it wasn’t for Shepard, you’d be on there with them.” Grunt’s voice cut through her sudden anger, and she shot him a grateful look. His tone was casual, as though he was just stating facts, but his leer was aggressive, just begging the man to try and make demands.

But he didn’t, instead lowering his gaze to her face and examining it unabashedly. The punching-his-balls-into-his-nostrils feeling returned. Why did everybody think ogling her like a vaudeville attraction was perfectly acceptable? Hell, she might’ve killed a Reaper, but she was still human ( _probably_ ) and didn’t take kindly to the wide-eyed stares. “Wait. Shepard. I know that name. Sure, I remember you. You’re some type of big Alliance hero.”

Her hands twitched with the effort of not hitting him. She had half a mind to say “Yep, that’s me, okay we’re out of here,” and as soon as she realized that nothing was actually stopping her, she opened her mouth to respond, and then --

“Commander Zelda Shepard, Captain of the Normandy. The first human Spectre and savior of the Citadel.”

Her stomach felt like it was about to drop out of her torso.

“You’re in the presence of a legend, Delan,” Kaidan said as he sauntered into view, voice soft, unassuming, examining her as openly as the mechanic had, except this time she didn’t feel annoyance, but guilt, those dark brown eyes piercing her as though he could pin her place so she could never leave. “And a ghost.”

He was handsome as ever, authority suiting him comfortably, giving him a strong, sturdy lean to his strong, sturdy body. Calm, easy reassurance rolled off him in waves, so powerful she felt herself falling into the tide, her world being pulled under and upside down. They were no longer mentor and pupil. Oh, no, this Kaidan had grown into his armor, his rank, and he knew it, looking down at her with no superiority but that blunt sincerity she had come to associate with him. But this Kaidan wasn’t naive, and knew how to use it to his advantage.

The mechanic, Delan, said something about being done with ‘scummy Alliance types’ but nobody really paid attention as he turned and left. Kaidan’s eyes were still blazing into hers, lit with emotion, and her mouth felt dry, tongue huge and useless in its prison as he came closer.

Oh, god, everything was coming back: the doubts about what they’d done, the confusion, the regret, the worry that maybe deep down she actually just cared about him too much so she was pushing him away in response, the warmth she felt in his presence, his honesty, his wide smile. Oh, god.

His brow furrowed with thought, an expression so familiar she almost reached up and touched it with her fingers, then he gave a small smile and wrapped his arms around her before she realized what was happening.

“I thought you were dead, Zelda. We all did,” he said after a long moment, body warm and tall against her own. His voice sounded muffled from where it was tucked into her shoulder, but she could hear the weight of two years on it.

_What do I say to that? How?_ “Kaidan,” was the easiest thing to say, so she took that first, breath hitching imperceptibly. His hands lingered around her arms as he pulled away. Her words failed her -- _I’m sorry, I died, why are you here, come with us_ \-- so her mouth blurted what felt acceptable, which was “It’s been too long. How have you been?”

She could almost feel Garrus cringe behind her.

“...That’s all you have to say?” Kaidan’s mask of self-assurance shattered, sharp edges jagged with anguish and bewilderment, splinters cutting deeply into her as he stared at her with a bitterness in his eyes that was so painfully different from the warmth she was used to. “After two years, you just show up and act like nothing happened?”

“What do you want me to say?” she demanded, burning from the acidity in his gaze, feeling her own mask crumbling, and with it, every memory viewed through the fuzzy lens of reminiscing, drawn into the harsh focus of reality. _Damn it, Zelda, control yourself._

“Anything! Why didn’t you try to contact me? Why didn’t you let me know you were alive?” His voice was pleading, smarting, and those eyes made her want to console him if he wasn’t yelling at her for something she couldn’t help.

“Because I fucking _died_ , Kaidan!” she shouted before she could stop herself.

He physically recoiled, face an open book of virulence and grief. The words felt sour leaving her lips, and instantly shame flooded through her. Could she blame him? He didn’t know. He probably thought she’d been faking it too.

She took a deep breath, steadying her body and mind. “I was clinically dead. It took two years to bring me back.”

Instead of the expected amazement and suspicion, Kaidan’s expression was still one of hostility, threading his words with barbs as he spit, “Why didn’t you contact me when you were brought back? I thought we had something, Zelda. Something real.”

Before she could protest, explain, he was close to her again, so near she could feel his angry breaths on the tip of her nose as he looked down at her. His hands were clenched in fists at his sides as he narrowed his eyes.

“I _loved_ you. Thinking you were dead tore me apart. How could you put me through that?”

_Oh, shit. That was the one we wanted to avoid._ The words hit her like a punch to the gut, sending her stumbling for a direction out of this conversation that didn’t involve major pain and/or indignity for both parties, but the paths were rapidly shrinking against her fogging vision.

It took several deep breaths before she could answer him, chest rising and falling against the curve of her breastplate, words lined up in sentences in her head, swapping spots and positions until they fit best, like a puzzle.

“It’s been so long, I thought you’d moved on. I didn’t want to reopen any old wounds.” _And besides, I didn’t have your extranet address_ felt just a little too practical for the moment.

Brown eyes searched her blue ones for a long moment, as if looking for a hint of deception, a clue to unravel whatever strings she had attached. Then he stepped away, and she released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“I did move on,” he told her, but his eyes were downcast and his hands were fiddling with clasps on his armor. “At least, I thought I did.” A ghost of a sigh escaped his lips, and then he was looking up at her through long black eyelashes, a resolved finality in his eyes like the conversation was put to bed at that and there was no waking it up.

“But now there’s reports of you with Cerberus. Alliance intel thought that Cerberus might be behind the missing colonies. I got a tip this colony might be the next to get hit. Anderson stonewalled me, but there were rumors you weren’t dead, and you were working for the enemy.”

She balked at the phrase, at the clear accusation wrapped in polite, factual words, plain evidence that he dared her to dispute. She took the bait with a step forward, but remembered to keep her voice low. _Shouting isn’t going to help_. “Our colonies are disappearing. The Alliance turned its back on them. Cerberus isn’t the enemy, Kaidan.” She was pleading, and she knew it, but she wanted to make him understand. “I know they've done bad things, but our goals are the same. At least they're doing what the Allliance won't!”

“You can’t really believe that!” Kaidan challenged, mirroring her step forward. “We both know what Cerberus is like! What they’re capable of! Or did you already forget Toombs?”

At the name, the face came immediately to mind, agonized, tortured, desperate. It blinded her for a second, giving Kaidan the opening he wanted to strike.

“I wanted to believe the rumors that you were alive. But I never thought you’d turn your back on us, on everything we believed in! You betrayed the Alliance. You betrayed me.”

Her face pinched with anger, sweat salty on her lips, the scab forming above her eye stretching painfully as her brows drew together. “Look around you, Kaidan! You saw for yourself: the Collectors are attacking human colonies and they’re working with the Reapers! What choice do I have?”

“I want to believe you, Zelda, but who knows? You’ve changed. I used to trust you, but with Cerberus involved?” He scoffed, arms crossed over his chest. “And you’ve dragged your turian pet into the scheme too. Nice to see you, Garrus.”

Goddammit she had wanted to forgive Kaidan, to convince herself he was just lashing out in anger and grief, but she bristled at his words before she could wonder what he meant by them, the corners of her lips pulling back in a snarl. _Who the hell does he think he is, attacking the one person who actually stayed with me? While he’s ditching me, after spitting on my face?_

“Damn it Kaidan! You’re so focused on Cerberus that you’re ignoring the real threat,” Garrus insisted, simultaneously ignoring the jab and defusing Zelda's anger. He seemed to take the remark in stride, not giving him the satisfaction of being nettled.

Kaidan’s eyes flickered back to hers with a look she didn’t recognize in them. It unsettled her, and with it triggered exhaustion. She was too tired to fight, to argue an uphill battle that ended with no side the winner. All she wanted to do was get out of here.

“You’re letting your emotions get in the way of the facts,” she said, gently as she could, fighting to keep the edge out of her voice.

Maybe he was just as tired as she was, because he just nodded in agreement. “Yeah. Maybe I am. But I know where my loyalties lie. I’m an Alliance soldier. Always will be. But you...you’ve changed.”

She was braced for the hit, and took it well, fingers pressed to her temples in an attempt to relieve the building pressure there. “Yeah, Kaidan, I sort of had to. I died.” She knew being flippant was petty, immature, and regretted it as soon as that look of pity crossed his face, and he was stepping away, and with him, another opportunity at her old life.

“I’ve got to go report to the Alliance. They’ll decide if they believe your story or not.”

He turned to look at her, brown eyes glittering, as she gave a small sigh. “Good luck, Kaidan.”

He shook his head. “Good luck, Commander.” _Oh, that’s not fair_. “And be careful.” Then he was gone, and just like Tali before him, she was staring into the distance, watching the last vestiges of her first life disappear on the horizon.

“Joker, send a shuttle to pick us up,” she said, not bothering to hide the pain in her voice. “I’ve had enough of this colony.”

 

* * *

 

_Another conversation with no destination,_

_Another battle never won; Each side is a loser_

_So who cares who fired the gun?_

_St. Jude, the patron saint of the lost causes…_

_St. Jude, maybe I’ve always been more comfortable in chaos._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took forever for me to get through. I struggled quite a bit with the pacing, and I was constantly re-editing, so I hope it came out okay. The good news is finally we get to Thane next chapter, so I'm really looking forward to that! Finals are among us, so that also slowed the writing in this chapter, and I'm not sure when I'll have the next one up, with Christmas coming up, so in case I don't update till next year, thank you so much for reading, and everyone have a Merry Christmas and/or holiday season!


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